


somewhere there's a light (a sign that it's alright)

by moxiemorton



Series: they say home is where the heart is (then my home should be with you) [1]
Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/F, and she's valid, beca rolls her eyes at LEAST once per section, competitive bemily, generally chaotic bechemily, inaccurate food service portrayal, insufferable sunshine duo chemily, married bechloe, unrealistic business operation, yes i WILL make beca a producer in every single AU i ever write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29549388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moxiemorton/pseuds/moxiemorton
Summary: Bemily Week Day 1 - Coffee Shop, Day 4 - Snow Day (barely), and Day 6 - Dancing (thematically)Freelance music producer Beca Mitchell doesn't actually need this barista gig. She already has a well-paying job that covers the bills and lets her work from the comfort of her own apartment — none of that backbreaking minimum wage customer service bullshit. When Chloe, her best friend and the owner of Caffè Bella, proposes some major changes to the shop that'll surely save it from its current path into bankruptcy, Beca doesn't think too much of it......until she learns that one of those changes involves hiring a delivery person.
Relationships: Chloe Beale & Emily Junk & Beca Mitchell, Emily Junk/Beca Mitchell
Series: they say home is where the heart is (then my home should be with you) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2201382
Comments: 20
Kudos: 37





	somewhere there's a light (a sign that it's alright)

**Author's Note:**

> I absolutely LOVE coffee shop AUs but I've never actually worked at one so I apologize in advance to anyone who is/has been a barista because many many things in this fic will be inaccurate. 
> 
> This has lowkey (sometimes highkey) bechemily vibes and ngl I would've pursued that but I really don't know how to write a poly dynamic, much less just-beginning poly relationships. There's bechloe being married as usual and chemily being fun buds so that's all I got.
> 
> [Also here's a playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2zfEfQHacgpSeEhYvvUGbf?si=f14d6ff1c49f4d5d).....it has nothing to do with the fic, it's just a playlist I'd put on if I owned a coffee shop.
> 
> This is a monster of a fic without any chapters, so instead of line breaks for sections, I put the three lil asterisks. If you wanna skip from section to section, just ctrl+f and put * * *  
> Hope you enjoy!

Beca’s never been one to say no to easy money. Like most people living under the oppressive weight of capitalism, she happens to like having money, thank you very much. _Especially_ if she doesn’t have to work hard to get it. The ideal job? Doing nothing and getting paid for it.

…In theory.

Actually doing nothing and getting paid for it, though, isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. 

Because it’s nearing 11am, almost four hours since the shop opened, and Beca can count the number of customers she’d served today on one hand. Sinking low in her chair until she’s eye-level with the countertop, she stares blankly up at her laptop screen and refreshes her Twitter feed for the seventh time in the last two minutes. Shockingly, nothing new pops up. She immediately refreshes again. Still nothing.

It’s kind of surreal that this is her job — sitting all alone behind the counter, fiddling aimlessly on her laptop, blasting music at an ungodly volume over the shop’s speakers. 

Well okay, this isn’t really her job, she’s technically a barista, but it’s pretty hard to be a barista without any customers. And yeah, fine, maybe there’s only so much sitting on her ass Beca can take before she starts to feel guilty about receiving a paycheck for doing jack shit. 

Maybe she wouldn’t mind if her boss was a dick, but for better or for worse, her boss is actually Chloe, her best friend since freshmen year of college. If Beca’s bored, it means there aren’t enough customers keeping her busy. If there aren’t enough customers, it means the shop’s not doing so hot. And if the shop’s not doing so hot… 

The jingling of the bell above the front door suddenly cuts through the music; Beca perks up in her seat like one of Pavlov’s dogs, kind of hating how eager she is for a distraction. Even if said distraction involves behaving politely towards annoying customers. 

But it’s not a customer. It’s just Chloe. 

Blowing out a breath, Beca turns her attention back to her laptop. Chloe disregards the lukewarm welcome and bustles into the shop with approximately six hundred tote bags slung over her shoulders and a two-inch binder tucked under her arm. She beelines towards the counter, frowning at the deafening music.

“Jesus, Beca,” she yells. “Is this a cafe or a nightclub?”

Beca scoffs but reaches over to lower the volume. “Not much of a difference when we’re the only ones here,” she grumbles.

Which, admittedly, is a startlingly insensitive comment to throw at a struggling business owner. The shop’s steady downward spiral towards bankruptcy has been the subject of countless Chloe Beale Meltdowns these past few months; the least Beca can do is not be such an impulsive asshole about it.

Though it miraculously doesn’t seem to sway Chloe today.

“About that,” she says excitedly, slamming the binder down on the counter two inches from Beca’s arm and flipping it open to reveal an upsettingly thick stack of papers inside. “Know what this is?”

“Two-thirds of the Amazon forest?”

“A _business plan_ ,” Chloe gushes, ignoring her. “Just finished putting it together this morning!”

Beca raises an eyebrow. She usually tries her best to stay out of the business/ownership/management side of the shop — or anything to do with the shop, really — but the anvil of a binder that’d nearly crushed her arm begs the question. “You know you’re supposed to have one of these _before_ you start a business, right?” 

Chloe tsks as she flips through the pages. “Of course I had one before. But this one’s like, revamped. A mish-mash of the old and the new. Like… _oh_ ,” her eyes brighten with excitement. “Like a _remix_.”

Beca stares at her. Chloe beams proudly. “Come on. That was good. Wasn’t it? It was. Wasn’t it?” She gestures towards Beca’s laptop. “You know, like. Remix. Like with songs, which is what you —”

“Yeah, no, I got that.”

“It’s got a lot of new stuff,” she continues like she never made the joke. “A lot of budgeting stuff that I’m sure you don’t care about—”

“I don’t,” Beca assures her. 

“But here.” Chloe stops flipping and swivels the binder around to face Beca, incorrectly assuming that she’d bother reading through it. “Some changes to the actual shop that you might be interested in since they’ll affect your responsibilities.” 

“Oh, I’m dying to know,” Beca deadpans. 

Immune to Beca’s sarcasm at this point, Chloe smiles wider and points to the page-long bullet list, reading it upside-down. “Like, for example, there’s: adding more drink flavor options, —”

“Ugh, I have to memorize _more_ drinks?”

“— adding a ‘medium’ cup size option, —”

“I have to find space for _more_ cups?”

“— adding croissants and danishes to the pastry options, —”

“I have to learn how to spell _croissant_?”

“— and, well, among other things, doing a bi-weekly open mic night,” Chloe finishes, successfully steamrolling over all of Beca’s complaints. She really should’ve saved them, considering the last addition is the worst yet. 

“Wh-n-uhh…open…? No. No, no way, Chloe. We are _not_ gonna become one of those tacky-ass coffee shops that let random, sub-par musicians and poets live out their performance fantasies.”

“Oh? Ohoho, ‘ _we_ ,’ huh?” Chloe pinpoints, finally acknowledging her input but like, totally not on the right word. “Finally gonna agree to run this place with me?”

Beca rolls her eyes. “In your dreams.”

Both of them know it’s a joke, know full well that she’s not the type of person to co-own a business with anyone, especially not something as customer-centric as a _coffee shop_ , especially not a _failing_ coffee shop. But Beca’s been there from the very beginning, years ago when the concept of this shop was just a seedling of an idea in Chloe’s mind. 

In their college years, they’d passed this very shop — back then just a hollowed-out shell of a structure with a sketchy old ‘for rent’ sign taped to the door — every single day on the trolley ride to and from campus. And every single day, Chloe’s eyes had lingered on the depressingly empty windows as they passed, even if they were mid-conversation. And then one day towards the end of their senior year, she’d suddenly and proudly announced that she’s going to rent out the space, renovate it, and open it as a coffee shop.

Thus, a year later, Caffè Bella was born.

Within a month it became clear why the space was abandoned for so long; located on the corner of a main street and a residential street, there were no ideal places for customers to park. The nearest bike rack was two blocks away. The trolley stopped at every other block, and it conveniently skipped the corner that the shop was on. It was a good twenty minute walk from campus, which meant that foot traffic was relatively low with the exception of local residents walking their dogs.

So yeah, Beca feels justified not wanting to share any of the real burden of ownership. But she can, at the very least, acknowledge her friend’s dedication to achieving her goal…however temporary it may turn out to be. 

Chloe continues obsessing over the binder. “I haven’t even gotten to the biggest change,” she says, and it’s hard not to be wary of that look in her eyes. “Increase staff,” she reads.

Beca blinks and glances around the deserted shop. “Increase st-…are you sure that’s the smart move?”

“Including but not limited to,” Chloe barrels on, “a delivery person.”

“Whoa, whoa. _Delivery?_ ”

“Yup! Part of the online order feature we’ve been meaning to roll out for months now.” She’s still flipping through pages like she expects Beca to be following along. “There’ll be an option for in-store pick-up and delivery, so we’re gonna hire someone for those.”

“Why,” Beca grinds out, trying to be reasonable and not impulsively critical, “can’t you use Grubhub or DoorDash like everyone else?” 

Chloe beams and slams a hand down on one of the pages. “I’m _so_ glad you asked.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“See here,” she says, pointing at a chart. “See! Here! Beca, _look_. Look at these numbers. Postmates charges a 25% commission fee on an order. 25%! UberEats, DoorDash, and Grubhub all take 30%!” Chloe flips to the next page and despite her pointed lack of interest, Beca has to admire the sheer effort that went into putting all of this research together. “This is an example of a restaurant that spent over $35,000 _just_ on delivery fees last year. 35k, Beca!”

“You’re gonna have to _pay_ the fictitious delivery person you hire.”

“Yes, but they’d be working here as an employee. If they have downtime, they can do other shop stuff like sweep up or take inventory.” Chloe crosses her arms. “What do you have against increasing our staff?”

 _More people I have to deal with_ , Beca wants to say. Even though a solitary shift and an empty shop is indicative of a failing business, she likes that there are only a handful of employees working here. It’s just her, the moody barista. Chloe, the owner/manager. Jessica and Ashley, the bakers who come in at 4am to make all of the food and never leave the kitchen. The other three baristas who she never learned the names of, covering the shifts Beca hasn’t claimed.

A solid team. And she knows almost half of their names. Four out of seven if she counts her own. 

“It’d be more people to split the tip with,” she settles. 

Chloe gives the empty tip jar a pointed look before raising her eyebrow at Beca. “I mean…okay. Well, yeah. Sounds to me like you think this is a _fantastic_ idea and we’re gonna be getting _so_ many new customers and _so_ much tips from them.”

“That’s not —”

“Love that optimism, but come on, let’s be realistic. Baby steps. Which brings me to my last point.” 

She pulls out her tablet and holds out the screen to show a now burnt-out Beca the shop’s website. The shop’s outdated, bland, janky-ass website, all clunky and painfully lacking in photos. The logo on the masthead is so low-res and pixelated that it’s almost comical. 

“We’re gonna scrap this whole thing,” Chloe announces. “Make it over from scratch. And we’ll add the online order button right here at the top where everyone can see.”

“And what, you’re hiring a whole other person for that, too?”

“Of course not.”

“Good.”

“ _You’re_ gonna do it.”

Letting out a sigh that deflates her entire soul, Beca sinks down lower in her seat, mentally scaling the weight of guilt against satisfaction that she’ll get from quitting right here right now. 

“Don’t you think,” she starts, knowing full well that Chloe didn’t think, “— considering this is a cafe and not a friggen pizzeria — that it’d be a better investment to get a professional web designer rather than hire a full-time delivery person?”

Chloe hums. “Well if you’re talking investment, it’s kind of an either-or sitch here. We’re strapped for cash and I’m using every available resource I have.” She pauses to hold out her hands, palms-up, towards Beca. “You. And you hate driving city streets, so I figured you’d rather redo the website than make deliveries. You’re on this laptop all day anyway! And your other work involves computer stuff, doesn’t it?”

Beca closes her eyes, and for a good measure, buries her face in her hands. “Please, dear god, tell me I don’t have to explain the difference between music production and web design to you.”

“You’re basically a professional computer wiz.”

“I _freelance_. That’s like, the opposite of professional.”

“You’ve made your own online portfolio, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, on a blogging website!”

“You’re techy,” Chloe concludes. “And classy and creative. You have an eye for this kind of thing.”

“Showering me with vague compliments isn’t gonna make me wanna do this.”

“But you’re gonna.”

Beca groans. “Do I get a bonus? A pay raise?”

“Oh, Beca,” she chides. “No, babes. You’re doing it out of the goodness of your heart. Because you love me.”

“Up for debate,” she mumbles. 

But as she stares at the god-awful website, Beca once again considers her complete uselessness as a barista in a coffee shop that averages about sixty customers per day. She doesn’t _want_ to serve customers, per se, but it’d be nice to actually sell the coffee she gets up at the crack of dawn to brew. 

She also thinks about how important this shop is to Chloe, how she doesn’t want to sit idly to the side as it crumbles to bankruptcy when the owner is standing right in front of her, offering oodles of solutions to pull it back up from the bottom of the ocean. 

Yeah, Beca’s not thrilled about making changes to the comfortable, uneventful routine she has going. But she certainly prefers this violently energized Chloe over the frantic, panicky, anxiety-ridden Chloe who’d been haunting the shop these past few weeks. 

And really, what’s she got to lose? 

“Fine,” she eventually sighs. And immediately splutters with disgust as Chloe pitches her body over the counter to press a wet, gross, sloppy kiss on Beca’s cheek. “ _Ew_ , dude! Are you _trying_ to get me to quit?”

“I’ll put out feelers for potential delivery people,” Chloe announces as she packs up her tablet and ridiculous binder, unaffected by Beca’s reaction as always. “No rush, but it’d be awes if we can have a fresh new website in time to make online orders available!”

Beca growls unintelligibly to herself since Chloe’s already disappearing into the kitchen. 

Easy-peasy. Just making a brand-spanking-new website faster than she can pluck the nearest unemployed college kid off the street. 

She looks blankly around the empty shop. Looks down at her laptop. Looks towards the door. 

Well, whatever. Guess she might as well start now.

*** * ***

At the very least, putting together the website gives Beca something to do for the next few shifts. It’s a lot to learn, sure, and web design can’t exactly be mastered overnight…but if she’s being honest, she has fun with it. 

She spends five hours picking out a layout theme and fonts. She dusts off the nice camera she’d gotten for Christmas a million years ago and illegally downloads an old version of Photoshop to add nicely edited product photos to the website gallery. She spends another five hours attempting to redesign the logo and doesn’t do a half-bad job of creating a new one. She even begrudgingly sets up a blank page where they can announce upcoming dates for Chloe’s beloved open mic nights and post potential recordings. 

Then there’s the matter of this online ordering shenanigans, made increasingly difficult with Chloe’s adamant refusal to use a third-party service. After referencing countless tutorials and videos, Beca clumsily works in a feature on the online menu that allows visitors to select items to add to their cart and check out right then and there. Then they have the option to have it delivered or to pick it up in the shop. 

The end result kind of kicks ass. 

So maybe it’s not the most creative-looking homepage, but it looks and functions like a legitimate website and Beca won’t lie: she’s damn proud of it. Not that she’d ever admit it to Chloe — god forbid she make Beca like, a Marketing/Outreach Coordinator or some bullshit like that — but it’s a nice feeling, being a part of the revamping process. It’ll suck if none of these measures pan out and this shop really does get shut down, but for the moment, it feels like she’s contributing something to a friend’s life-long dream. 

More than she’d ever contributed by dissociating in front of the cash register. 

At the sight of the site’s final draft, Chloe immediately tears up. 

“Oh, my god.” Beca panics and pulls her laptop out of view as if that would make it stop. “Dude. No. Cut that out.”

“It’s so beautiful.”

“It’s really not.”

“Comparatively, it’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, because it was shit before.” Rolling her eyes, she hands Chloe a napkin. “Pull it together, Beale. This is literally step one and it’s not even live yet.”

“I love it.”

“Thanks.”

“And I love you.”

“I know.” There’s so much intensity in Chloe’s gaze that Beca feels obligated to add, “If you kiss me again I’m deleting this entire thing and legitimately quitting.”

She laughs, wiping at her eyes, but doesn’t invade Beca’s personal space. So everyone wins today.

Embarrassed by the unexpectedly emotional response but now fueled by validation, Beca goes ahead and looks into other online features that might come in handy for the shop. Like a navigation app that links to their ordering system, giving their future delivery person easy access to addresses. A location-based app for employees where they can punch in and out of their shift without using the antiquated punch card machine. An app that links to _that_ app to split the total amount of tips the shop receives according to the percentage assigned to each employee. 

Okay, maybe she has a _lot_ of fun with it. What did she expect? It’s not like her other job as a freelancer is thriving, and it’s nice to feel like she’s earning her pay for once. 

She’s tweaking the unpublished website here and there one morning when the bell above the door chimes, and for the first time in months, Beca doesn’t jump up eagerly at the sound of it. Good. Back to hating customers — the way it should be. 

A girl strides up to the counter, smiling and channeling a sunny vibe that Beca immediately wants out of her proximity. “Hi!” she greets with way too much enthusiasm for 7am. 

Beca puts on what she hopes is a friendly enough smile. “What can I get you?”

“Oh.” She blinks, taken aback by Beca’s perfectly reasonable question. “I’m not here to order. I’m, uh. Here to work.”

For a wild second, Beca wonders if Chloe inexplicably fired and replaced her without warning. But then she glances down at the website and puts two and two together. “Ah. Delivery.”

“Yes!” She beams. “I’m Emily.”

“Beca.”

“Oh! You’re Beca!” she says excitedly, which isn’t exactly a predictable response, but Beca considers the fact that this girl was interviewed by Chloe, the queen of oversharing personal details to strangers. “Sorry, that’s weird. Chloe told me about you,” Emily confirms. “You guys met in a freshmen seminar, right? And you opened this place together? That’s so cool!” 

“Uh.”

“I’ve always wanted to own a cafe just like this,” she continues, not giving Beca a chance to correct her about the shop, “but it’s more of a daydream, since I’m sure running a business is hard work. It’s gotta be worth it, though, especially if you’re serving something like coffee, which everyone likes. Right?” 

“Sure,” Beca offers, noncommittal. 

Probably expecting her to say more, Emily stares at her, smiling. Then she melts out of it and looks around the empty shop before turning back to Beca. “Great! Great, um. Are you…gonna be the one showing me the ropes?”

“Let’s hope not, for both our sakes.”

Chloe bustles out of the kitchen just then, sparing Emily from having to respond. “Oh! Emily!”

“Hi!”

“You’re here!”

“I am!”

“Glad you made it!”

“Of course! Reporting for duty, Captain!”

“Welcome aboard!”

Caught between their peppy nonsensical exchange, Beca stares off into the middle distance. Emily seems to have the same bubbly personality as Chloe, the two of them already feeding off of each other and rapidly growing into an insufferable source of optimism and manic energy. 

God, there’s gonna be two of them.

Chloe whirls on Beca, eyes aggressively blue and bright. “Beca, this is —”

“We’ve met,” she interjects boredly. 

Without missing a beat, Chloe beams at Emily. “Don’t worry, she’s like that to everyone. Come on, I’ll introduce you to our bakers and show you around.” 

“Awesome!”

“Awesome!”

Beca rubs at her temples as they retreat into the kitchen, listening to the music drifting softly from the speakers and wondering if these are her last moments of peace and quiet. The overly cheery pair’s disposition and exclamation-mark-filled conversations aside, Emily’s arrival makes this whole delivery idea very, very real. 

The shop could gain attention and popularity. They could actually have more than one dine-in patron at a time. 

They could get busy. 

No one can blame her for dreading a busy shop; it’s not like Beca was desperate for a job when Chloe had forcibly recruited her as a “temporary” barista almost eight months ago. She was there, had pockets of free time, and Beca had been the easy hire — no interview, no pay negotiation, no shift negotiation, no negotiation of any kind.

 _Busy is good_ , she reminds herself firmly. _Busy shop means more sales and less Depressed Chloe_. 

“And we can section this part off for delivery orders,” Chloe’s saying as they emerge from the kitchen, indicating a spot on the opposite end of the counter from where Beca is brooding. “We have a navigation app paired with the shop’s system. All you have to do is match the order number with the address.”

“Sounds easy,” Emily says, nodding. 

Beca idly watches as they circle the shop, Chloe highlighting every little nook and cranny like she’s some museum tour guide. Emily follows along patiently, adding polite comments here and there and asking questions when appropriate. 

That’s when Beca finally notices the helmet tucked under Emily’s arm. A bike helmet. Making deliveries on a bike? Wow. Of course Chloe would hire someone based purely on exuberant personality rather than the practicalities they could offer. Like a freaking car.

“And we’re back to the start,” Chloe says as they end up in front of Beca again. “That’s it! Oh, Becs, look!” She indicates to Emily, who holds open a gigantic rectangular take-out bag. 

Beca glances over. “No cup holders?” she deadpans. 

“We’ll use the trays, duh,” Chloe says. “Bottom level can be drinks and the top can be for food. We can fit so many orders in here at once!”

“And we can probably fit you, too,” Emily giggles, holding the bag up for a size comparison. Unamused, Beca narrows her eyes, and Emily immediately lowers it and clamps her mouth shut, clearly regretting the joke.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t the most appropriate reaction to a harmless joke, especially from the new girl who’s obviously just trying to ease the tension that Beca’s assholery is creating.

Chloe swiftly inserts herself between them, back to Beca. “Ignore her; she’s not a morning person. Needs like, eighty cups of coffee before she cracks a smile. I keep her around for tech stuff, so she’s basically IT…oh! That reminds me. Beca.”

“Mm?”

“You’re done making changes on the website, right?”

“Mm.”

“Publish it.”

Beca blinks. “…Already?” She raises an eyebrow at Emily, who gives a little shrug in return. “I mean. Okay, sure.”

“Trial by fire,” Chloe says, reading Beca’s mind. “Best way to learn. Right, Emily?”

“Sure is!”

“Great. Whatever.” Beca pulls up the website and hits the _publish_ button, feeling a storm brewing in the distance. “Done.”

The smile Chloe gives her is so blinding and unfiltered that Beca has to physically avert her eyes. She’s finally left alone as the pair wander away to talk about schedules and shifts, leaving her staring at the newly live website and wondering if she’d just contributed to digging her own grave.

*** * ***

To say that adding a delivery option saves the shop from the brink of bankruptcy would be a massive understatement. 

Apparently it takes less than two days for word of their new online ordering service to get out. Two days for Caffè Bella’s popularity to skyrocket into outer space and for their daily sales to quadruple.

It speaks to the culture of laziness and isolation, Beca thinks, just how many people prefer the luxury of having their food and drinks brought to them rather than walking the five blocks to come pick it up themselves. A completely hypocritical criticism, considering she wouldn’t hesitate to fully take advantage of a service like that if she lived near a cafe with that option. 

The downside is that there’s hardly a second to relax anymore, because now the shop has “peak” hours, which Beca did _not_ sign up for. 

Online orders flood in nonstop from about 7:30 to 10, a majority of them in-store pickup for people stopping by before heading to work. And from about 9:30 to 11 is the wild mix of deliveries, pick-ups, and dine-in patrons who all seem to coordinate to ensure they overwhelm Beca with the sheer number of orders she has to put together within a reasonable amount of waiting time. 

To be fair, overwhelming her isn’t hard considering she used to average about three drink orders per hour. 

Because of how awful she is at working quickly, sometimes either Jessica or Ashley has to come out of the kitchen to help her out, which Beca kind of hates because there isn’t a ton of space behind the counter. 

_Busy is good_ , Beca keeps telling herself. _Busy is good. For Chloe._

Chloe, who usually drifts in sometime around 9 or 9:30, sometimes even later. Today, she comes in closer to 11 — god knows why — just after Jessica had returned to the kitchen to address the huge influx of breakfast orders. 

“Busy?” She states the obvious happily, peering around Beca at the growing list of orders. 

“Could use a hand,” Beca grunts, both an agreement and a complaint. Chloe, as expected, just pats her on the back with a satisfied hum and disappears into the kitchen to talk to the baker duo. Whatever. The rush is winding down anyway.

Almost immediately, Emily returns from her last delivery and enters the shop, like this room can’t bear to be stuck with Beca alone for even three seconds.

“Hi! Any new —?”

“Yeah,” Beca cuts in, more short-tempered than she’d ever been in her life. “Race Hall came first. Then Bentley.”

“Roger dodger!”

Undeterred by Beca’s brusqueness, Emily starts packing the ridiculously boxy delivery bag, humming along to the song playing over the speakers. It’s completely unfathomable how she can be so chill and relaxed after making back-to-back deliveries for two hours straight while Beca is literally on the verge of a mental breakdown just from shuffling around behind the counter.

And as swiftly as she’d come, Emily’s gone again, campus-bound. 

Chloe pops back out of the kitchen as soon as the door closes behind Emily, proving Beca’s theory that she can’t be allowed to have a goddamn moment of alone time. In her hands is a tray of baked goods, a good half of it lined with unfamiliar pastries.

Pausing in her ice-scooping long enough to scrutinize the pastries that Chloe’s now placing in the display case, Beca considers the pros and cons of asking what the hell they are. Personally, she doesn’t give a crap, but she knows _some_ nosy customer is going to ask.

“Okay, what the hell are those?”

As if she’d been waiting for Beca to ask, Chloe looks up with a sparkle in her eyes. “Don’t they look awesome? I found a peach-orange strudel recipe and it tasted a _maze_ balls. So I had Ashley whip up a batch.”

“But that’s not on the menu,” Beca says. 

“Yeah, but.” Chloe shrugs. “They’re good. Trust me.”

She’s pretty sure that’s _not_ how the food industry typically operates, but Beca can’t be bothered to criticize anything right now. There are six black coffees — _Jesus, just order a takeout jug, you idiots_ — she has to prepare for pick-up, another two orders for delivery, and a group of people waiting in line at the counter.

The mystery strudels will have to wait. 

Blessedly, Chloe waits until the line is gone and the online orders have slowed down before joining Beca behind the counter to casually bring up yet another absurd piece of news. 

“So. I’ve been looking around, talking to people, getting the lowdown,” she starts, and Beca already feels a headache forming. “I was thinking we should put in a stage for the open mic nights.”

“What? No,” Beca says immediately, as if her opinion on this topic actually matters. “That’s gonna take up so much space.”

“Not an actual _stage_. Like a small platform, over there in the corner,” she explains, pointing towards the back. “And we can fit a table on it during shop hours.” She pouts as Beca scoffs. “Come on, it’ll add some charm to this place!”

“Sounds like a fire hazard. And a waste of money.”

“It doesn’t cost _that_ much.”

“Chloe, last week there were _no_ customers here. Save up a bit.”

“But we’re doing so much better now!”

“Yeah, and it’s splurging on dumb shit like this that’ll put you back in the red!” Beca finally snaps.

Chloe narrows her eyes, smile and playful attitude both gone in a flash. Something like genuine anger crosses her expression. 

The bell rings just then, announcing Emily’s return. 

She freezes and looks between the two of them, clearly realizing she walked in on a tense conversation. “Oh…uh, s-sorry,” she mutters, but Chloe says “don’t be,” at the same time Beca says “better be,” and evidently Emily only hears Chloe because she relaxes a little. “Did any more orders come in?”

Beca gapes at her. “What? You’re back from campus? Already? That place is ten minutes away by _car_.”

“Well. Yeah, but I’m not in a car,” Emily says with a shrug, like that makes any sense. 

“Cars take longer to maneuver around city streets,” Chloe clarifies at the baffled look on Beca’s face. “Drivers have to wait for traffic lights, stop at stop signs, follow one-way street rules, —”

“So do _cyclists_ , they’re legal vehicles in this city, dude! What the hell are you —”

“— and that’s why I looked for bikers. They get around faster.”

“Yeah, _suspiciously_ fast,” Beca accuses. “How do we know she’s not just eating and drinking the orders? There’s no way she could’ve made it all the way to Race _and_ Bentley and back that fast.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Chloe says. “She can’t eat six bagels and drink eight iced lattes in ten minutes.”

Emily shifts from one foot to the other and half-heartedly raises her hand. “I…um. Hi. I’m right here.”

“Okay, then she’s stashing it away,” Beca reasons, ignoring her. “Dropping it off at her place or something, I dunno.” 

“Hm, you’d think we would’ve gotten more complaints about missing deliveries if that were the case.”

“Maybe they’re giving us the benefit of the doubt.” As she says it, Beca realizes how stupid she sounds, but for some reason she feels an incessant need to continue this argument. It’s not humanly possible for Emily to have biked all the way to campus and back that quickly. 

Is it? 

It’s not. 

Is it?

Rightfully, Chloe laughs in her face. “Oho, _you_ of all people think that _customers_ are giving us the benefit of the doubt.”

“Yeah, they should know cafes don’t typically offer delivery! Maybe they assume it’s a new worker, which is correct, and that she doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing.”

“Still, uh. Still here,” Emily interjects quietly. 

“She knows what she’s doing.” Chloe rests a hand on Emily’s shoulder, comforting and reassuring, but her eyes flash dangerously in Beca’s direction. “She’s good at her job. Which is more than what could be said about other employees here.”

Beca glares right back. “Don’t push me, Beale. I _will_ quit.”

“Ha. Sure, you will,” she laughs easily, calling the bluff. “You need this job.”

“I have another one that actually pays the bills.”

“Not for _money_ ,” Chloe says like it should be obvious. She picks up the empty tray and starts heading back to the kitchen. “For your _soul_ , Becs. Your soul.”

Which makes no damn sense. 

“I don’t _have_ a soul!” Beca calls after her. And immediately grimaces. Yuck. Not her best comeback.

To her credit, Emily takes the entire, messy exchange in stride. She looks from Beca to the empty pick-up counter and unclips her helmet. Then she turns back to Beca. “Um. If it makes you feel any better, being fast doesn’t mean I get better tips.”

Beca frowns. “Why would that…” Then she remembers the lame excuse she’d given to Chloe about splitting tips. “Oh, my god. Don’t tell me she…ugh. Gonna kill her.” 

“Hm. You guys are like an old married couple,” Emily observes. “You bicker the same exact way my grandparents do.”

Dragging a hand down her face, Beca chooses to ignore the comment and glance at the order screen just in time to see a delivery order pop up. Glad to have something else to focus on, Beca quickly and somewhat sloppily puts together the order. 

“You’re up, Speedy,” she says, finally slumping down in her chair as Emily starts packing the bag.

“I’ll do my best not to steal these,” Emily says, sounding serious, though the poorly-restrained smile clearly says otherwise. “But between you and me, I don’t really like coffee.”

And with that disturbing confession, she’s gone again. Beca stares at the door long after it closes behind Emily, wondering how the hell someone with that much energy and liveliness is functioning without caffeine. 

But she doesn’t bother dwelling on it because for a brief moment in time, the order screen and the shop are both empty and Beca has a moment to herself. Finally, blessedly alone. 

Until five seconds later, the bell rings and a customer walks in. 

*** * ***

“I wanna go over these numbers with you.”

It’s thirty minutes after closing and Beca’s wiped. All she wants to do is go home and pass out, but Chloe’s slamming yet another binder down on the counter.

“Really?” Beca groans. “We have to do this right now?”

“I’ll be quick,” she promises, the way she does when she’s about to waste an hour of Beca’s time. “I just want to show you how much a difference a week of selling out can make.”

The weight of exhaustion on Beca’s shoulders increases. It’s only been a week? It feels like she’s been at it for months, and the blisters on her feet agree whole-heartedly. For the five-billionth time, she wonders why she hasn’t quit this stupid job already.

Chloe pushes the binder towards Beca, insistent. “See this chart? And these numbers?” 

“Sure.”

“Look!” she presses. “Look there! 69%!”

“Nice,” Beca says.

“Beca.”

“I don’t know what any of this means,” she admits tiredly, sparing the dizzying chart of numbers a glance. “Like, 69%? Isn’t that like a D? Ha, a D. Isn’t that bad?”

“One, grow up. Two, it’s a 69% _increase_ in sales. That’s phenomenal!” Chloe excitedly points out a steeply increasing line graph. “And it’s not just from the online ordering feature; we’ve also had more people dining in, too. You should’ve seen our first open mic night, Bec. This place was like, _packed_.”

Beca, who had deliberately scheduled herself off of Friday night shifts to avoid those open mic nights, now clearly sees where this conversation is headed. She sighs. “You’re subjecting me to this because I shot down your ‘install a stage’ idea the other day, aren’t you?” 

“Just wanted to give you some peace of mind,” Chloe says, smiling innocently as she slams the binder shut. “Emily likes the idea, too.”

“Oh, now Emily gets a vote?”

With an inquisitive tilt of her head, Chloe regards Beca carefully before asking, “Why do you hate her?”

“Wh-I don’t _hate_ her,” Beca splutters. “Jesus, Chloe. I meant that she hasn’t been around long enough to have input on major purchases like this.”

“You’re strangely over-critical of everything she does.”

“I’m over-critical of anything anyone does.”

Which isn’t a lie, per se, but when it comes to Emily, there really isn’t much to criticize because she’s actually a model employee. 

The human embodiment of sunshine and rainbows and labrador retrievers. The kindest soul the customers have ever seen. The master of freakishly fast deliveries, making runs that would take a normal person twice as long and hardly breaking a sweat doing so. 

It doesn’t bother Beca that Emily’s good at her job; she’d be throwing a complete bitch fit at Chloe if the opposite were the case. No, what bothers her is that Emily effortlessly gets along with every single Caffè Bella worker. 

She goofs off with Chloe during delivery lulls, dancing along to the pop hits playing over the shop’s speakers and talking shit about customers. She hangs out with Jessica and Ashley in the kitchen, somehow already having made plans with them to catch a movie over the weekend. She even shoots the breeze with the guy who delivers the milk, referring to each other by name and catching up on personal lives. 

She even gets along with Beca, which is the wildest part. Without being explicitly told, she knows to leave Beca alone, to refrain from offering help even when she’s clearly overwhelmed, to not make small talk with her when she’s free, to just hang out by the pick-up counter, quiet and out of the way. 

She’s the perfect coworker. 

It’s downright unsettling. 

Chloe tsks. “She’s an angel and you treat her like a nuisance.”

“I treat everyone like a nuisance. You said it yourself!”

“You’re gonna scare her away,” Chloe says, uncharacteristically stern. “And I can’t have that, Becs. I need her if we want to keep this up.”

“You make it sound like I’m the playground bully,” Beca grumbles. “Like I pushed her off the swingset or something.”

“Just be civil.”

“I _am_ civil.”

“Do better.”

Beca rolls her eyes. 

Chloe nudges her arm. “Hey, I’m serious! Get along. Play nice. Find something you have in common. Like a hobby or…oh!” She slaps the countertop. “You both have similar second jobs. That’s something to bond over.”

Predictably, that piques Beca’s interest. “Does she?”

Chloe smiles wide and bounces a little in her seat the way she does when she has gossip to share. “Get this: Emily used to be a professional backup dancer!”

Beca stares at her. “Our jobs are _nothing_ alike.”

“They’re both music-based.”

“That’s _it?_ ”

“She went on tour with Ariana last year,” Chloe gushes. “ _And_ she’s subbed for one of Taylor’s shows. Isn’t that so crazy? She’s met Taylor! Imagine how good you have to be to dance for _Taylor_?”

“No wonder she’s so fucking fast on a bike,” Beca mutters. 

“And she was in _high school_ when she danced in a music video for Kesha! Like, _the_ Kesha!”

“Be sure to get her autograph, you freak.”

Chole pauses. “Oh, my god. You’re so right.”

“I was kidding!”

“Anyway. Common ground,” Chloe says, abruptly jumping back on topic. “If she quits because of you, I’m having you make all those deliveries. Be nice.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Beca drones, saluting unenthusiastically. “Can I go home now?”

“Sure.” She shoves the binder into Beca’s arm. “Your copy.”

“I don’t want this.”

But Chloe’s already bouncing away out of reach, grabbing a broom and shooing Beca towards the door. “Bye! See you tomorrow!”

So Beca has no choice but to toss the ridiculous binder onto the passenger seat of her car as she starts the engine, feeling a maliciously upbeat aura from the glossy orange cover. Great, so sales are up. Popularity’s up. The shop’s booming. Great, great, great.

 _Busy is good_. _Just deal with it, you baby._

Cracking the aches and pains out of her neck, Beca drives home in contemplative silence, already dreading tomorrow morning’s rush.

*** * ***

She’s lagging behind again. 

There are three unattended orders listed on the screen and she’s rushing to put together four other orders without messing up any of the ingredients, an in-store customer impatiently tapping his foot behind her as he waits for his medium caffe mocha.

Okay, so she’s lagging behind big time, but not for the lack of trying. 

And boy is she trying. 

It’s not that Beca wants to be this utterly incompetent; it’s just that these orders come in so fucking fast and in such large quanities — like seriously, who the fuck is having a goddamn tea party at 8:30am on a Thursday morning to need eight lattes and a bagel platter?

She slams the mocha down on the pick-up counter, ignoring the impatient-ass customer’s scowl and deliberate silence as he snatches up his order and exits the shop. 

Emily returns just then, holding open the door for him and earning the _thank you_ he had denied Beca. Whatever. Not like she needs validation from assholes like that anyway. 

“Hi! Any of those going out?”

“No, you’re free for now,” Beca says distractedly. 

“Mmk! Well let me know if I can help,” Emily offers. 

Beca just grunts, staring blankly at one of the items that just popped up on the screen. 

_What the_ fuck _is a cortado?_

Growling out a string of curses, she wastes precious seconds pulling out the recipe cheat sheet. Espresso and steamed milk. What the hell. Can’t they just order an espresso and put milk in it themselves? Useless.

Probably noticing the lack of movement behind the counter, Emily straightens up from her spot by the pick-up counter. “Um. _Do_ you want help?” she asks.

It really shouldn’t annoy Beca, but it does. “I got it,” she grunts. 

Emily peers over the counter at the screen and frowns worriedly. “Are you sure? There’s like…this is a lot.”

“It’s fine.”

“I can at least help with the ones that —”

“I _said_ I got it,” Beca snaps.

And promptly knocks over a completed drink onto the floor. 

It’s a small grace that it’s an iced americano and not a scalding cup of coffee since it splashes all over her shoes and legs, quickly seeping through her converse and jeans. Ice cubes scatter across the floor, one of them sliding as far as the entryway to the kitchen like a picture-perfect slip hazard. 

“Dude!” she’s yelling before she can process what just happened, unfairly deflecting the embarrassment of her blunder onto Emily. “Can you get off my back for _ten_ seconds?”

Despite Beca’s harsh outburst, Emily rushes around behind the counter, apologies streaming steadily from her mouth. “Oh, god. Ohhhh, god. Shit. I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry.” She snatches up a roll of paper towels and frantically rips off gigantic pieces. 

It’s gross, tedious work, wiping up the mess with these crappy paper towels. A mop would be faster, but that requires filling the bucket and then carrying it out back to dump it and that’s way too many steps for Beca to handle in this mental state. In any case, Emily’s absurdly long arms are doing a fantastic job sweeping the floor, already minimizing the puddle to a couple of glistening streaks. 

Beca sighs to herself. She really needs to chill the hell out. It’s just one tiny spill, not something to throw a temper tantrum and yell at a coworker over. 

Chloe’s warning rings through her head.

“God,” Beca groans, opting to avoid cursing. “My feet are gonna reek of sweaty coffee for the rest of the day.”

“At least it didn’t have any milk in it, right?” Emily says nervously. “That’d smell even worse.”

“What a silver lining,” she sniffs.

“You’re right. Sorry.” She ducks her head and goes back to wiping. “And sorry for making you drop this,” she says in an even smaller voice.

Beca pauses and lets out a slow breath. “You didn’t,” she says curtly. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled.”

Emily reaches under the counter to pull out the wastebasket, holding it out for Beca to dump the wads of coffee-soaked paper towels. “I just thought you could use some help. And I just messed you up even more.” She looks guilt-ridden, her face all pinched and worried and completely unlike her usual, smiley self. 

Okay, maybe Beca really is the bully. 

“Don’t worry about it. It’s on me; I’m not used to doing this much shit at once,” she admits, tossing the fallen cup into the trash and grabbing a new one to fill with ice. Emily immediately moves out of her way.

Remaking this drink, at least, is easy enough; it’s the 500 other orders that’s making her drag her coffee-soaked feet. As she glances at the screen, a humongous new delivery order pops up. 

Ugh. Screw this. 

She turns to Emily. “Can you…” Beca forces out the next words. “Handle that delivery order for me?” 

Emily blinks, her apologetic expression fading. “Oh. Yes. Yes! Of course!” She hurries back to Beca’s side, rolling up her sleeves to wash her hands. “You got it, boss!”

Rolling her eyes and regretting her decision just a little, Beca finishes the stupid order with the americano and sets it aside for pickup. She looks back at the screen and sighs; she’d already forgotten what the hell a cortado was. 

She’s halfway through the next batch of drinks — the mystery cortado can wait — before Beca realizes how painless this is. Working with Emily next to her. Whenever Jessica or Ashley comes out to help, they’re constantly bumping elbows and getting in each other’s way because Beca doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing. 

Unlike them, Emily apparently has a sixth sense and anticipates Beca’s every step and pivot, easily moving out of the way as she prepares her own set of drinks.

It’s weirdly methodical. Almost choreographed. 

Maybe it has something to do with Emily having heightened spatial awareness as a pro dancer. Maybe she’s making an effort to give Beca space. Or maybe she’s just a considerate person. 

And no matter how grumpy she wants to remain from the spill and her damp shoes and jeans, Beca has to appreciate this small moment of peace — peace she’d never thought she’d experience during peak hours with someone behind the counter with her. 

Emily starts singing along to the shop’s music and Beca teeters on the edge of zoning out. 

_Now it's too early to say goodbye_ _  
__and it's nowhere close to closing time_

Idly, she notes how perfect Emily’s harmony is, her voice gentle and pretty. There’s a softness to her cadence that fits the song and lyrics well, and Beca slowly shakes her head to herself. Of course. Of course this perfect fucking girl is a good singer, too.

 _Don't walk out on me_ _  
__I've got this feeling that there's something here_ _  
__Don't just leave me standing in the street_ _  
__I know there's something in your head saying stay my dear_

Okay, she’s a _great_ singer, better than a good number of Beca’s musical clients. Chloe had fangirled over Emily’s dancing career but hadn’t mentioned a word about her singing. 

Maybe music really is their common interest. 

“I don’t wanna assume anything, but it kinda seems like you hate this job,” Emily starts conversationally out of the blue. “I mean, I get that you’re only here because of Chloe, but…don’t you think she’d understand if you actually wanted to quit?” 

“Wh-…I don’t _hate_ this job,” Beca mumbles, hit with sudden déjà vu. “It’s just, I dunno. This used to be easier because no one ever came in. Like, ever. I could get away with sitting on my ass all day and working on shit for my other job.”

“Mmm. Until you guys started taking orders online and offering delivery.”

“Yeah.” She makes a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. “Now we get great reviews and way too many customers.”

Emily raises an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” Beca says, huffing out a dry laugh. “Well, it is for me, I guess, because I suck at this. This fast-paced food service stuff.” After a thought, she adds, “And you…you’re _so_ goddamn fast. Making me look bad, jerk.”

Somehow, Emily distinguishes the joke from Beca’s otherwise unchanged tone and offers a smile. “Well, if you let me help you like this more often, maybe you’ll learn a thing or two.”

Despite the rush, Beca pauses to glower at her, but for once Emily doesn’t look away. It’s almost impossible to keep a straight face with Emily continuing to smile at her like that, but Beca’s stubborn grumpiness prevails. “Let’s not get carried away.”

“Hey, you said it.”

“I said you’re _fast_ , not that you’re good.”

“Yeah, but.” She shrugs, her smile now turning cheeky. “It was implied.”

Beca narrows her eyes; she can’t even argue that, because Emily’s already done putting together the massive order and packing it into the delivery bag. So instead, she scoffs to herself, not sure if she likes this sassy version of Emily. 

It beats the version that was scared of her, but at what cost?

“If you’re still struggling when I get back,” she starts, and Beca’s already rolling her eyes, “I’ll be happy to lend you a hand again.”

“Peak’ll be over by then,” Beca bites out. “I’ll have all of these done before you teleport back here.”

Emily hums, skeptical, as she hoists the bag onto her back. “Guess we’ll see about that.” 

And before Beca can fire back a retort, she skips out the door with a condescending wave, grinning over her shoulder as the door closes with a merry jingle. 

*** * ***

Beca’s never been one to back down from a fight.

No, that’s a fucking lie. She’ll gladly back down from a fight if the odds are against her. 

Beca’s never been one to back down from a fight she could potentially win. Especially if winning that fight will prove someone wrong. 

And _man_ , would she love to prove Emily wrong.

Because it’s downright infuriating just how fast this chick is on her bike. Making deliveries at impossible speeds. Returning in the blink of an eye, barely out of breath. Unclipping her helmet and shaking out her perfect hair like she’s a fucking model. Leaning casually against the counter to wait for the next order.

Except now, she’s gained the audacity to act all buddy-buddy with Beca, giving her an overly pointed and slightly condescending, “Almost done with that?” whenever she has to wait more than five seconds.

“Give me a minute,” Beca grunts, and foreseeing Emily’s next question, quickly adds, “No, I don’t want your help.”

“It’ll go by quicker if we work together.”

“Stay in your lane, Junk.”

“Just saying.” Emily says it lightly, wearing that playful grin that never fails to royally piss Beca off. 

So, out of pure spite, she forces herself to become better. 

She studies the drink recipes like they’re exam notes. She learns to juggle five different drinks at once. She commits certain motions to muscle memory. She positions the cups, lids, and sleeves in easy-to-reach places. Anything she can do to speed up and have the next delivery order finished before Emily returns from her last one.

And that’s exactly what she starts doing. Slowly but surely, she starts beating Emily at this race. 

Because that’s really what it is: a race. Sure, they don’t refer to it as such or yell _go!_ to start it off, but it’s definitely a race — an arbitrary one at that, considering neither of them can control the timing of when an order comes in; the odds can potentially be against either of them.

Still, the lack of fairness doesn’t stop them from rubbing their respective victories in each others’ faces. What starts as subtle, casual gloating rapidly escalates into a vicious competition, an honest-to-god, full-fledged sprint to the finish that more often than not ends in a heated argument about who _actually_ won with their particular extenuating circumstance of the day. 

Soon enough they’re duking it out in the middle of the shop, and while Beca’s never cared about saving face in front of customers, it’s immensely satisfying to have Emily drop her usual customer service façade to make a scene, yelling at Beca over something as trivial as a traffic cone in the bike lane.

One of the many perks that comes with winning. 

And, Beca thinks, smiling to herself as she finishes putting together the next outgoing order, she’s been winning a lot more these days. 

She sets the drink down with the rest of the order just as Emily barrels back into the shop, the bell above the door chiming chaotically as she bursts through in a whirlwind of winter air and frantic desperation.

Beca jabs a finger at her, triumphant. “Ha!”

“Hey! No! You _just_ finished that!” Emily exclaims, and Beca notices with some satisfaction that she’s out of breath and pink at the cheeks, like she’d rushed to get back. “I saw you put it down! That’s a tie.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t _sure_ me, you know I’m right!”

“If you’re gonna be such a stickler about it, maybe next time you should get here a little faster.” 

“Wh-n-…I biked twenty blocks!” Emily fires back, still fuming. “And back! And you only just finished, what, six drinks? Oookay.”

“Sorry, don’t you have somewhere to be?” Beca asks, feigning sincerity and frowning down at the receipt taped to one of the drinks. “Like, maybe here, at this address? They might be expecting you to show up at their place with all these drinks they ordered, or something.”

Emily narrows her eyes. She’s trying hard to not smile, though, and the effort evidently isn’t leaving any room for a comeback.

“C’mon, clock’s ticking, babe. Better get moving or people are gonna think you’re slacking.”

“N-…you…” Emily pushes out through gritted teeth, determinedly focused on packing up the delivery bag. “You…’re the slacker.” She immediately flushes at how weak that sounds. “Damnit,” she swears under her breath. 

Beca clutches at her heart. “Owie, my poor widdle feewings.” 

By now, Emily’s fully smiling, tongue poking out between her teeth as she rushes to finish packing so she can escape. “Ugh, shut up. You’re insufferable.”

“Hell yeah I’m suffering.” She shakes her head slowly, disappointed. “Working with people who just can’t match my pace. God, my life is hard.”

“In! _In_ sufferable! Are you even making these correctly?” Emily asks, skeptical. “Two weeks ago you didn’t know what a cortado was.”

Beca barks out a laugh. “Hey now, let’s be clear: I still don’t know what the hell that is.”

“Espresso and steamed milk! It’s not that hard!”

“Fine! Then how ‘bout you come back here and make all these drinks? I’ll take your stupid bike and let the nav app do all the work for me, since I’m clearly brainless.”

“How? Your feet won’t even reach the pedals, Tiny!”

“Well good, because there’s no space back here for your 50-mile noodle limbs!”

“Hey!” Chloe intervenes, poking her head out of the break room. “Can you two behave? We have customers here!”

“Yeah, _Beca_.” Emily violently zips the bag closed. “Behave.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t be a sore loser.”

“It was a _tie_.” 

“Mmk,” Beca says, sickly sweet. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“You know what?” She stops by the register and digs into her pockets for a handful of coins. “Here,” Emily snaps, dropping all of maybe 70 cents into the tip jar. “A little charity, since I’m sure you don’t get as much as I do.”

“Oh, gosh. Thank you _so_ so much. Wasn’t sure if I was gonna have enough for rent this month.”

With a tremendous sigh and a groan of frustration, Emily shoulders the bag and marches towards the door, not bothering to argue back. 

Channeling all the fake cheeriness she can muster, Beca calls out, “Miss you already! Hurry back!”

“Bite me!” Emily says without turning around, exiting the shop with another chaotic jingle as she rips the door open. 

Beca waits until it closes behind her before snorting out a laugh, releasing the smile she’d been fighting back. With the mad rush to beat Emily now over, she slows down a bit with the rest of the orders but keeps a sharp eye on the screen in case another one for delivery comes in. She’s on a roll today; maybe she’ll get a three-streak win. 

“Having fun, are we?” Chloe asks as she emerges from the back, tone caught somewhere between annoyed and amused. 

Blinking, Beca considers the question. Huh. She _is_ having fun, isn’t she?

The thought wipes the smile from her face but doesn’t deflate her giddy mood. As a matter of fact, an unfamiliar warmth fills her chest as she realizes that she’s honestly looking forward to Emily’s return so they can banter some more.

Which is…new. 

Whatever. This is what Chloe wanted: Beca actually putting in effort, getting the job done, making nice with Emily. She never specified _how_ she wanted that done.

Chloe reads her mind. “You know, when I told you to find something you have in common, I was thinking something less…destructive.”

“It’s not like we’re fistfighting each other,” Beca says, but can’t stop herself from adding, “yet,” at the exact same time Chloe does. “At least we’re getting along, right? Just like you said.”

“I also said ‘be civil,’ didn’t I?” 

“This is us being civil.”

“Would hate to see uncivil.” But then Chloe smiles, leaning forward on the counter. “Still, you two should keep up this weird contest you have going on. You’re both working faster than ever and it’s doing wonders for sales and reviews.” 

“Cold-hearted business bitch.”

Her smile grows into a sunny expression that directly contrasts her words. “That’s me!”

Beca rolls her eyes but has to hold back another smile. They’ve all come a long way in just a month, and she’d now be fully lying if she said she hates working here. She doesn’t _love_ it, but she sure doesn’t hate it; she has a better handle on this job now. 

Like, way better. 

So maybe this barista thing isn’t as bad as she’d thought was.

*** * ***

Every first Tuesday of the month, Chloe spends half the day driving out to the coast to meet with her rich-as-fuck grandmother, one of the biggest investors of Caffè Bella. 

Who Beca absolutely loathes. 

A bitter, judgmental, petty old woman with enough venom in her heart to kill a rattlesnake three times over, Grandma Beale has been at the top of Beca’s shit list ever since they had the displeasure of meeting at a Thanksgiving dinner almost six years ago. 

Bound by some ridiculous caveat that came with the investment loan, Chloe visits the decrepit old hag at her beachside mansion for tea or brunch or horseback riding or whatever the fuck kind of frivolous activity rich people with no lives and granddaughters to emotionally exploit decide to do that day. 

When Chloe finally trudges into the shop halfway through Beca’s closing shift on Tuesday afternoon, she looks drained and pale and totally unlike her usual self. 

Which is like, pretty unforgivable. Though she’s with a ridiculously over-customized macchiato order, Beca takes a second to send all the ill will she can muster towards that shitty grandma for making Chloe this subdued and wan. Senior citizen or not, she deserves a beatdown. 

“Hey,” Chloe greets tiredly. Then does a quick double-take around the shop, noting the line at the pick-up counter, the full tables, and Emily’s absence. “Weird time to be busy.”

Beca sighs dramatically. “Yeah, what the hell, right? I told them to beat it but they just won’t leave.” 

The barest flicker of a smile tugs at Chloe’s mouth as she slips into the kitchen. Considering it a small victory, Beca sets out a mug on the side and starts prepping yet another over-customized drink, this one a small latte. 

Sometimes she forgets just how stressful it must be to be a business owner; Chloe just makes it look unbelievably simple. Even when this place was spiraling towards bankruptcy, she’d managed to frame her panic attacks like it was just a personal project that wasn’t going the way she planned and not like it was a life-altering financial disaster that could leave her, like, homeless. 

So, yeah. Beca’s pretty satisfied with her decision to not co-own this place. 

When Chloe reappears, she has yet another tray of off-menu baked goods in hand. Apparently not minding that it’s late in the afternoon, she starts lining the display shelf with a fresh batch of blondies.

Beca shakes her head but doesn’t say anything. As long as this place doesn’t get shut down for violating food laws or some bullshit like that, Chloe can do whatever her little heart desires. Not sticking to any trackable menu options? Sure. That’s a customer problem, not hers. 

Chloe looks up sharply. “Hey, Beca?”

“Mm.”

“I’d hate to bother you right now.” She sounds genuinely apologetic. “When you have a sec, can you make me a-…oh.” 

Beca mutely passes her the mug with the latte before turning back to the tooth-rotting macchiato. Jesus, was it four sugars? Five? No, five is for the extra pumps of caramel…probably. 

She grimaces. It’d be so much easier if she can bullshit these amounts, but some customers have absurdly heightened taste buds that can detect even the slightest deviation from their usual specifications. She’s found out the hard way more than once.

“Um, okay,” Chloe says from behind her. “Sorry, when were you gonna tell me?”

“Tell you what?” Beca asks absent-mindedly, giving up and glancing back at the order on the screen to confirm the right amount of additions. Five sugars _and_ five extra pumps of caramel? Diabetes galore.

“That you’re telepathic.” She frowns and raises an eyebrow at Chloe, who raises the mug. “How’d you know I was gonna ask you for this? This _exact_ drink?”

“Uh, I dunno. That’s like…your Bad Day drink of choice. Your pick-me-up order, or whatever.” 

“Oh. How’d you know I had a bad day?”

“You went to see your douchey grandma,” Beca scoffs. “That’s a bad day for anyone.”

Chloe rolls her eyes at the insult but doesn’t correct her. “Hm. Sharp. Are you this good with the customers?”

“No.” Beca pulls a face. “I don’t know or care about them. You, I’ve known for years.”

“Aw.”

“Don’t,” she warns. “Don’t make it weird.”

“What? It’s touching.”

“You’re making it weird.”

“This is like, the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me.”

Beca gapes. “I built you an _entire website_! For _free_!”

Chloe hums and sips happily at her drink. “Yeah. You love me so much.”

With a scoff, Beca turns back to finish the diabetes drink. Leave it to Chloe to turn a small gesture into a whole ordeal. It’s frankly baffling how they’ve been friends for so long; how Beca hasn’t grown tired of Chloe’s unpredictable antics, how Chloe hasn’t grown tired of Beca’s unmoving surliness.

As she finally caps the drink, she feels Chloe’s gaze burning holes into the back of her shirt.

“What?” she snaps. 

“Nothing.” 

Setting aside the macchiato to circle back to a half-finished flat white. “You know I’m not actually telepathic, right?” 

She plucks the latte from Chloe’s hands to steal a sip. As soon as it hits her tongue, she cringes with a full-body shiver. Ugh, way, _way_ too sweet. It’s a wonder how she can stomach this sugary sludge. 

Chloe snatches her drink back like she ironically hears all of Beca’s silent criticisms. 

“Do you remember when I showed you all those charts that you didn’t understand? And told you that the shop was doing better?” she asks.

“I remember the 69%.”

“It’s only gone up from there, and it’s not just because of the online services.” Chloe continues, ignoring Beca’s choice in confirmation. “It’s also because of personnel changes.”

“Yeah, yeah. You hire a delivery chick, she kicks ass, the shop gets a great rep, blah, blah,” she sniffs. “We get it already: you’re in love with Emily.”

“Not just her.” Like a dramatic reveal, Chloe motions to Beca. 

“I was here before, though,” Beca says stupidly. 

“Kay, but you used to suck.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but then closes it. “That’s fair.”

“Like, yeah, I love Emily, but she didn’t just make the shop better. She made _you_ better!”

“I…guess,” Beca admits reluctantly. It’s stupid to deny that. Out of spite or not, she’s become great at handling peak hours and tidal waves of orders efficiently. “You’re welcome, by the way. Got yourself a reformed lazy bum pumping out 500 cappuccinos per second.”

Chloe narrows her eyes. “No, Beca, I don’t mean just as a coffee-churning machine, but as someone who serves customers. As a people person.”

That gets her full attention. “A people person? You think _I’m_ a…?” She can’t help but to laugh. “Funny.”

“You’re way more polite now,” Chloe insists. “The other day, you said ‘hi, how are you?’ before taking their order.”

“Oh, so the bar is straight up on the floor for me, huh.”

“Point is…” In one, disgusting gulp, Chloe finishes off the rest of the latte and swings around the counter to wash the mug in the sink. “You’ve been so much nicer to everyone since Emily came around. Don’t deny it. I’ve been watching you.”

“Creep.”

“I’m your _boss_. I’m supposed to watch you.”

Beca can’t connect the two dots. “It has nothing to do with Emily. I just got more used to talking to people because we have so many of them coming by.”

“Mmm, no.” Wiping the mug dry and returning it to its place under the counter, Chloe smiles serenely to herself. “No, it’s her. You’re like…more alive when she’s around. Happier”

“Ew, what? No, I’m not.”

As if on cue, Emily bursts into the shop, eyes wild. They grow even more wild as a slow, slightly crazed victorious smile spreads across her face.

Beca shoots Chloe an annoyed look as she caps the flat white. “Ugh. See what happens when you distract me?”

“Excuses, excuses.” Emily saunters over to the pick-up counter. “Distractions are a part of life, Beca. You should really learn how to work through them to finish your job more efficiently.”

“And now she gets to rub it in,” Beca tells Chloe, ignoring Emily. “All your fault.”

Silently, Chloe arches an eyebrow, her point made. Suddenly self-conscious about everything she’s doing and saying, Beca clamps her mouth shut and averts her gaze from Chloe’s piercing one. 

“I also got the _best_ tip,” Emily’s saying, oblivious to the nonverbal exchange going on behind her. “$20 for a $30 order. Insane, right? Guess that’s what speedy service and a nice smile gets you.”

“Yeah, sure is insane, seeing how you don’t offer either of those things,” Beca retorts, unable to stop herself despite the knowing smirk Chloe’s now wearing. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, did _you_ get a 70% tip today?” 

“I don’t know how often I have to tell you that I don’t _need_ tips.”

Emily twists her face into a scornful scowl. “Yeah, yeah, second job, _I’m richer than you_ , yadda, yadda.”

“As long as you know.” Beca smiles, smug. 

She carefully avoids looking at Chloe.

Whatever, she’s wrong. Like, _so_ wrong. Maybe Beca seems more alive, sure, since Emily brings out the violently competitive side of her, but happier? Pfft. 

No way that fighting with Emily makes her happier.

*** * ***

Beca enters the shop a few days later for her closing shift and freezes halfway through the door. 

“Uh.” She stares at the new addition to the room. “What the fuck is that?”

“A stage,” Chloe says, matter-of-fact, like it’s completely normal for such a contraption to appear overnight. “Installed this morning! Did you forget we were getting one?”

“You,” she corrects without a second thought. “ _You_ were getting one, not _we_ , and no, I just didn’t think you were serious.” There’s another comment hanging on the tip of her tongue, one about spending money on useless things, but she bites it back. It’s done. It’s here. There’s no point reviving the argument. “You’re really leaning into this open mic night thing,” Beca says instead. 

“They’re pretty popular,” Emily chimes in from her usual spot by the pick-up counter. “We had a pretty big crowd last time, right?”

“Totes.” Chloe raises her eyebrows. “You would know, Beca. You upload all of the recordings onto the website.”

“I upload them,” Beca says grumpily, clocking in as she stuffs her jacket in the cubby under the counter. “I don’t _watch_ them.”

“You should! We’ve had some seriously talented people perform,” Emily suggests. “Also, I play at most of them so that’s a _great_ reason to watch.”

Beca looks up, amused. “You perform at those things?” she asks. “Like. On purpose?”

Emily gives her a flat look. 

“Oh! Speaking of which.” Chloe fishes out her wallet and passes Emily a credit card. “When you drop this order off, can you stop by the dollar store on 49th? I was thinking we can decorate the stage with —”

“— _Christmas lights_!” Emily finishes with Chloe, their voices crescendoing together with excitement, and Beca rolls her eyes _._ “Yes! Yes, absolutely!” Her eyes widen. “Should we get the colorful ones? Or the ones that twinkle?”

“Hmm. What about the colorful ones that twinkle?”

Emily nods seriously. “Genius.” 

Beca stares blankly at the order screen, the conversation distracting enough to blur the words before her eyes. “You’re gonna put those on the stage?”

Chloe blinks. “Yeah, why?” she asks, surprised at Beca’s sudden involvement. 

“That’s gonna be so distracting.” Though she wants to ignore its existence for as long and as often as possible, Beca nods towards the contraption. “The point of a stage is to showcase the performer. Flashing rainbow lights are gonna pull the attention away from them, and god, it’ll look horrible on recordings. Just get the regular white ones. Keep it simple.”

“Hmm. Fair point. Let’s do two boxes of the plain ones then,” Chloe tells Emily. Then she seems to notice how the shop is completely empty. “Bec, when you’re done with those, can you do the windows? It’s been a while.”

“Oho-kay, so Emily gets to go buy Christmas lights while I wipe down windows? What am I, Cinderella?”

Chloe scoffs as she heads towards the kitchen, pausing long enough to grab the bottle of window cleaner to toss to Beca. “Don’t be dramatic. A clean store is a happy store.”

“Saying shit like that only makes me want to quit more,” she threatens, but Chloe just laughs and disappears from view. “Pain in my ass,” Beca adds under her breath. With the last drink finished, she helps Emily pack up the bag.

“Careful,” she warns, “making decoration suggestions like that.”

“What, about the lights?” Beca frowns. “Why? I’m right.”

“Yeah, obviously, but…” Emily leans in closer. “Chloe might start to think you actually really love this place,” she says in a loud, pointed whisper. “I mean. _I_ already know you do, but it seems like you’re still trying to hide it, so.”

She smiles as Beca glares. 

“Can you.” Beca stuffs the last of the bagels and pastries into the bag before shoving it into Emily’s arms. “Get out of here, please.”

“Kay, jeez,” Emily whines. “So touchy.”

“ _Bye_.”

She huffs out a breath as Emily leaves, snatching up the paper towels and the stupid window cleaner. 

Wiping windows. What a waste of time. It’s a rare moment when there isn’t a single dine-in customer or an online order on the screen, and she can’t even sit down and work on her other job like old times. 

At least she can blast music over the speakers again. Beca fiddles with the dials on the stereo system, maxing out the volume so the lyrics are distinguishable for once. 

It’s annoying and tedious work, not only working here as a barista but also maintaining the cleanliness of the shop itself. The ever-present dirt on the floors. The respawning dust bunnies. The permanent stains on the tabletops. And these damn windows, somehow always dirtier on the inside than the outside. Spraying up the first pane, Beca reluctantly gets to work.

She zones out right away, mindlessly singing along to her playlist and kind of hating how much she enjoys the zen that comes with performing manual labor to a catchy song.

Four songs and two more window panes fly by before her arm starts to ache from the wiping motion. Mentally cursing Chloe, the lack of customers, and minimum wage, Beca switches arms and soldiers on, focusing determinedly on the current track to distract from the burning in her triceps.

 _I've had just about enough_ _  
__of quote diamonds in the rough_ _  
__because my backbone is paper thin_ _  
__Get me out of this cavern or I’ll cave in_

She squints at nothing in particular as she sings along, letting her head fill with ideas for the annoying synth-pop client she has to deal with on occasion. She could replicate this kind of beat. Capture a similar feel with the instrumentals. 

_I'll soak up the sound_ _  
__try to sleep on the wet ground_ _  
__I'll get ten minutes give or take_

But lyrics are the tricky part. In all her years as a freelancer, Beca’s never had a client who could write a catchy chorus or work in a decent rhyme scheme. 

_'cause I just don't foresee myself getting drowsy_ _  
__when cold integrity keeps me wide awake_

As she laments the fact that she probably won’t have a clever lyricist of a client anytime soon, Beca ducks under the windowside counter to get at the scuff marks on the glass above the foot rest. The music is muffled in this tiny space that she’s practically crawling to get to, creating an effect that gives Beca even more sound engineering ideas.

God. This is what she’s become. The kind of person who notices and cares about shit like streaks of dirt on the glass under the counter. The kind of person who finds the silver lining in every awful task she’s given. The kind of person who savors blasting and singing along to Owl City.

Whatever, she’s being zen. Shuffling crab-like under the counter, wiping at glass. Just vibing.

Until an unexpected exclamation explodes behind her.

“You can _sing?!_ ”

Beca flinches and smashes her head against the underside of the counter so hard that she crumples back down to the floor, vision going completely black. She must’ve screamed because suddenly she’s surrounded, multiple pairs of hands touching her back, her shoulder, her elbow. Helping her up, steadying her, guiding her to a chair.

The back of her head feels like it’s split in two. White-hot pain flashes across the area, somehow both sharp and dull at the same time. Then a brief wave of nausea rolls through her stomach and Beca screws her eyes shut.

Hell no. This is already embarrassing enough. She’s _not_ about to throw up and make it worse. 

She inhales slowly through her nose and tries to focus on something else. Anything else. The ricketiness of the chair she’s sitting in. The distant hum of the kitchen fridge. The sound of her own breathing. The solid floor under her feet. Her hands and the death grip they have on the wooden arms of the chair. 

No, just one hand gripping the wood. The other hand gripping…someone else’s.

Somehow she knows it’s Emily’s. 

She exhales just as slowly as she’d breathed in, relieved to feel her stomach settling. 

“Beca?” Chloe’s voice floats in from somewhere to her right. Which confirms that it really is Emily’s hand that she’s crushing. “Are you okay? Can you hear me? Can you see me? How many fingers am I —?”

“No,” Beca moans. The last thing she wants to do is open her eyes. “I don’t care about your fingers.” 

“How many?” Chloe insists.

“Twelve.”

Someone gently presses a bag full of ice cubes against her head. It takes a few seconds for the coldness to seep in and it really doesn’t do much to alleviate the pain, but Beca figures it’s supposed to help with any swelling. “I’m fine,” she says, because she’s mortified and can feel immense worry radiating off of them both.

Somewhere in the haze of pain and embarrassment, she hears the bell jingle, announcing a customer. She reflexively moves to stand, only to be firmly held in place. 

Chloe heads over to take the order. “Keep an eye on her?” she tells Emily. 

“I said I’m fine!” She gingerly opens her eyes and grimaces against the blinding sunlight. The throbbing intensifies angrily. “Seriously. It doesn’t hurt.”

“Okay.” Emily pitches her voice low so Chloe can’t hear. “But you’re breaking all my hand-bones.”

Beca rips her hand away from Emily’s. “Sorry,” she growls. “I mean. This is your fault so I’m not _that_ sorry.”

Emily winces. “I didn’t think I’d scare you that much. I thought you heard me come in.”

“The music was on high.”

“But it’s a pretty loud bell.”

Mustering up the strength to raise her head, Beca gives her a hard look. “I was also under the counter.”

“Oh.” She blinks. “Didn’t know they’re soundproofed.”

Beca blows out a frustrated sigh to hold back an involuntary smile.

“Hey.” Emily squats down so they’re eye to eye, her expression sincere. “Seriously. I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“It’s fine,” Beca says, because really, it’s her fault. “Just don’t…talk to me when I’m doing stupid shit. Like crawling under the counters.” 

Emily’s eyes remain earnest. “So I can never talk to you again, huh?” 

God. No. She’s annoyed right now. She’s _super_ annoyed and in pain. There’s no way Beca’s about to laugh or chuckle or indicate in any way that the dumb comment got to her. So she bites down on her tongue, trying to formulate some witty comeback, hating that she isn’t actually annoyed. Like, at all.

“You think you’re _so_ funny,” she finally says.

“Well, you’re smiling, so.” Emily bites back a smile of her own. “Kind of, yeah.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Sure.”

“I literally hate you so much.”

“I can tell by the way you’re still smiling.”

“Stop talking to me,” Beca says. “I’m concussed.”

“That explains this.” Emily pokes at Beca’s cheek close to — _too_ close to — the corner of her mouth. “While I have you in a good mood, can I say something that might piss you off?”

Taken aback by Emily’s unexpected touch, Beca struggles to find a snippy retort. “Really can’t fathom _why_ you’d think I’m in a good mood,” she settles.

“I just think it’s like, the most ironic thing ever. The song you were singing along to when you hit your head.” Then, she sings, “ _I'll keep my helmet on just in case my head caves in_ ,” with that perfect fucking singing voice of hers as she turns her helmet over in her hands. “I would ask if you want to borrow this, but.” Emily clicks her tongue and grimaces, nodding towards the ice pack. “Looks like I’m a tad too late.”

Beca tries her damned hardest to keep a straight face as she glares at Emily. “Cute.” 

“Mmm, yeah. I know,” she says, and shoots Beca an exaggerated, flirty wink.

Which is, like. Okay. All right.

It’s the concussion. That’s why her head’s spinning like this. Not because…no. Concussion. For sure.

“Irony aside,” Emily continues on, oblivious to Beca’s reaction, “I didn’t know you could sing like that. You sound amazing!”

Beca winces as she pulls the ice pack away. The pain’s gone down to a dull ache now, but she has a feeling it’ll be tender to the touch for at least a few days. “Eugh. Thanks. Comes in handy for my other job, I guess.”

“Right! You’re a music producer.”

Beca stares at her. “How…?” Then she remembers. “Chloe.” 

“Yup. She said you pretty much take awful recordings and turn them into real songs.”

“I…ugh.” She leans forward and the floor sways a bit. “I freelance, so the people I work with aren’t that great. I sometimes throw in my own voice as backup because they, uh. Kinda suck.”

“Wow. You’re too kind,” Emily deadpans, but she’s smiling. “You don’t wanna go work at a real record label? With _good_ musicians?”

“Eh, maybe. Freelancing’s more chill, though. Playing by my own rules.”

“Guess there’s pros and cons to both.”

“Yeah, well.” She shrugs. “Labels won’t take me without a solid portfolio of non-sucky clients, so. Vicious cycle, blah, blah. C’est la vie.”

“La vie,” Emily says immediately. 

Beca groans and closes her eyes. She’s had enough of this shit. “Cancelled. Go away.”

“C’mon.” Emily nudges Beca’s foot with her own. “C’mon! That was funny!”

“What was funny?” Chloe asks, choosing the worst time to come over to check on Beca’s head. 

Emily beams at her proudly. “Me! See, we were talking and Beca said —”

“Oh, good lord,” Beca moans.

“— ‘c’est la vie.’ You know, _c’est la vie_ , like the French phrase for ‘that’s life’ —”

“I hate it here.”

“— and _I_ said ‘la vie,’ because, like. She said ‘ _c’est_ la vie.’ Get it? Because it sounds like _say_ —”

“She gets it!” Beca snaps. “She gets it! Oh, my god!”

Chloe trades a knowing look with Emily. “No, I don’t get it. Can you explain it again, but slower?”

“That’s it. I’m quitting.” Beca moves to stand and Emily and Chloe rush to help her up. “I’m fine! Get off, I’m busy quitting.”

“I’ll need a two week notice for that.”

Grumbling, Beca shrugs them off and shuffles behind the counter, settling down in her old chair instead. 

One day, she’s actually going to quit. Be free of the insufferable duo. Be free of the burnt-coffee stench that’s stained through all her clothes. Be free of potential concussions. 

Be free of customers.

One day, she thinks, grinding her teeth as Emily and Chloe fawn over dollar-store Christmas lights behind her. 

One day.

*** * ***

Chloe cancels delivery service the next day. 

Which Beca thinks is stupid. It’s just a little rain. And thunder. And hella lightning. Some lowkey flooding. Prime conditions for people to order delivery so they don’t have to venture outside. 

But nooo. It’s dangerous for bikers and Emily can slip and crash and die, or whatever. 

“See, this is why we should’ve hired someone with a car,” Beca points out.

“Oh, ‘we’?”

“Chloe, I’m gonna lose my shit on you.”

And it doesn’t even make sense because Emily comes to the shop anyway, hitching a ride from a friend and breezing in through the door like this is just another day at work for her. 

“She can help with tidying up,” Chloe explains, seeing Beca’s baffled expression upon her arrival. “Unless…you want to do that?” She beams as Beca shoots her the most annoyed look she can manage. Emily joins Chloe at her side, dazzling her with an identical smile, two against one.

“I’m _great_ at tidying up.” Emily rolls up her sleeves like she’s about to powerwash the entire interior of the shop. “And I can reach those pesky little corners without having to crawl under the counters or anything.”

Beca opens her mouth, a sharp comeback ready on her tongue, but Chloe claps her hands together. “Great! Then I’m gonna go run some errands. You two gonna be okay on your own?”

Emily salutes and gives a confident, “Absolutely!” at the same exact time Beca deadpans, “No.”

Of course, Chloe only hears Emily. 

What _ever_. To be fair, her head still hurts from yesterday, and no delivery and rainy day means there are practically no orders coming in. At least Beca can finally pull out her laptop and chill while Emily takes care of the housekeeping stuff. 

Which is…kind of peaceful. Relaxing music, rain falling outside, little to no customers. Both of them doing their own thing in their own little corners. _This is what it’s supposed to feel like_ , Beca idly muses, _to sit in a cafe and actually_ enjoy _the cafe_.

Their usual peak hours come and go with minimal orders. Beca blows through a laundry list of client requests. Emily’s moved onto sweeping the floor. 

“Dude, you can relax,” Beca calls, exasperated. “It’s a slow day so slow down for once.”

“Meh. I don’t mind.” Emily shrugs, jabbing at the dusty spots by the trash can. “Cleaning relaxes me.”

“Weirdo.”

“What? I like keeping busy.”

“Point proven.”

Emily just smiles to herself, shaking her head. 

And it’s dumb that she came in at all when her primary job isn’t even needed today, but Beca figures this is just the kind of person Emily is. Someone who enjoys finishing meaningless little tasks. Someone who gets up on the right side of the bed every damn morning. Someone who genuinely loves being selfless.

Seriously, a model employee.

Beca frowns down at her laptop, clicking through all of the apps she’d set up to track Caffè Bella’s employees. The clock-in app shows that Emily’s never been late to a shift. The nav app shows that Emily’s completed every single delivery in record-breaking time. 

She finally pulls up the tip calculating app. All of these amounts were put in by Chloe, of course, determined by some standard business operating procedure or whatever. Beca squints at her split. Then Emily’s. It’s not, like, a significant difference. Beca’s been here longer and Emily has her own pool for deliveries, so it evens out a bit.

But it still seems a bit unfair that Emily’s split is lower when she does so much for the shop. Chrissake, she came here in a thunderstorm to clean up the shop. 

Not thinking anything of it, Beca logs in as the admin and moves 5% of her split to Emily’s. 

She glances up as Emily visibly pauses and frowns, tilting her head a little to the side. “Oh. I remember this,” she says, listening to the song playing over the speakers. “I was in the music video.”

“This song?” Beca asks, surprised. They’re running Chloe’s playlist from her tablet today, so she doesn’t know this song or artist. It’s an upbeat pop track, catchy but easily forgettable. She raises the volume a little, listening for a recognizable lyric.

“Yeah, it came out like, a million years ago. One of the first dancing gigs I got.” Emily grimaces. “It wasn’t too popular.”

Though Beca has her fair share of indirect celebrity connections, Emily’s the only person she knows who’d consistently worked with super famous musicians. It seems like an interesting life, being contracted by industry giants to perform in front of millions of people but like, only in the background. 

“You remember any of it?” 

Emily freezes mid-sweep. “Oh…hm. Do I?” she wonders out loud. 

Without even putting down the freaking broom, she slides into starting position, waits a few beats until the chorus, and dives right into the choreo. It’s nothing too fancy or flashy, just a lot of stepping and spinning and leaning, but she guesses it looks better with a whole team of synchronized dancers. Beca watches, amused, as Emily dances through the rest of the song, still holding the broom.

“Hey! I do!” she says excitedly as the song winds to an end. “Muscle memory’s really that bitch, huh.”

“Guess so.” Beca snickers. “Looks fun,” she says without thinking. 

Emily’s face lights up. “Want me to teach you?”

“No.”

“I can teach you.”

“No, I’m good.”

“Come on, I’ll teach you.”

“I’m — okay, fine,” Beca relents as Emily physically drags her out on the floor. 

“You’ll like it.”

“Doubt it.” 

As expected, she’s ignored. Whatever, it’s not like she’s doing anything important. 

“It’s not that complicated when it’s broken down. You start here, like this, left foot in front. And then…one, two, step and turn. Five, six, seven and lean.” Emily counts out steadily as she moves. “Point, two, three, step. Five, step, six, step. Shuffle back and hold.”

Slowed down and counted out, it actually doesn’t seem too difficult. It’s in common time, no fancy offbeat steps, straightforward motions, and each movement completed within a measure. 

Fine, she can do this.

“Hm. Okay.” Beca takes her place next to Emily so they’re side-by-side. “Go a bit slower.”

Emily goes through the steps again, snapping her fingers as she demonstrates each move with exaggerated stiltedness. Following along loosely at first and starting to hit the marks on the second and third run-throughs, Beca gradually picks up the flow of the movements. 

Then they speed up. Then Emily shows her another set of moves. Then they put it all together.

Beca’s already out of breath and they’ve only been doing this for fifteen minutes. 

“Wow, you’re picking this up fast,” Emily observes. 

“Just moves tied to beats.” She tries to sound like it’s no big deal, but she’s struggling to breathe. “Like you said. Broken down, not that hard.”

“Oh, so you’re _actually_ musically talented, huh?”

Beca raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, is that disappointment I hear?”

“Kind of.” Emily bites down on a smile. “Soon I’ll have to acknowledge that maybe you’re, like. Cool.”

“Uh, I _am_ cool.”

Humming and ignoring the claim, Emily pulls out her phone and plays the song. “Wanna try it in tempo?”

It’s fast. It’s fast as hell. Beca’s only heard it once but she doesn’t remember it being this fast. She’s not about to back out now, though. “Sure.”

Beca falls behind almost instantly. Emily restarts the song. Beca still falls behind. Good lord, it’s hard as hell. Granted, she’s only been doing this for twenty minutes and she doesn’t exactly have the most professional teacher, but still. There’s no way Beca could do this for a living. 

As soon as they make it through the song once without Beca royally messing up, she calls it quits.

“Jesus, that’s fucking exhausting,” she gasps, yanking off her hoodie.

Emily’s staring at her with a bewildered smile. “You can _dance_ too.”

“Oh.” Beca grimaces. “If you can call it that.”

“Uh, yeah I can! Wow! Man!” Emily looks elated. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

Beca shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. There’s something about the way Emily’s looking at her — all earnest and reverent — that makes her feel _way_ too seen. “I…I dunno. I…um, can’t break the sound barrier on a bike, that’s for sure,” she says, deflecting with a joke.

“Wouldn’t really call that a talent.”

“Chloe’d disagree.”

Emily laughs and rolls her eyes, an action she’s done countless times. For some reason, it makes Beca’s chest feel all fluttery and light. 

_Ew. Why?_

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Emily asks seriously, and for some inexplicable reason, Beca’s stomach flips. “Why don’t you ever work during open mic nights?”

“Oh.” She shakes her head sharply. “I, uh. I dunno, I deliberately schedule my shifts to avoid being here those nights,” she says, not realizing how childish that sounds until she’s said it out loud.

“You deliberately…?” Emily reels back. “Wow, okay. I’ve never seen anyone hate on open mic nights this much.”

“I’m pretty passionate about the things I hate.”

“Why do you hate them?”

“I dunno. I just think they’re tacky and cringey.” Beca wrinkles her nose. “Rather not be present for the secondhand embarrassment.”

“Wh-hey! I perform at like, every single one.”

“Ha. Then I rest my case.”

Emily laughs and backhands Beca’s arm. “Rude!”

“Ow! _You’re_ rude!”

“Come to tomorrow night’s. You could perform!”

“No.”

Pouting at Beca’s immediate and non-explanatory rejection, Emily crosses her arms. “Chloe said you can play like fifty different instruments.”

“Wow, is there a biography of me I should know about?”

“So you _have_ to know at least one song on guitar.”

“I don’t know how to play and sing at the same time,” Beca lies.

Emily sees right through it. “I mean. Sounds fake, but okay. That’s fine! A lot of people go with karaoke.”

“Wow, karaoke? Gee, how can I resist.”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. Just come and see!”

“No!”

“Beca, come on,” Emily presses. She reaches out abruptly, grabbing Beca’s hands and wringing them from side to side. “Pleaseeee? Please please please please?”

“God.” She tries to pull away but Emily tightens her grip. “This is like, the opposite of convincing me.”

Emily stops swinging their hands around. “Please?” She lowers her head a little, looking at Beca with wide puppy-dog eyes. “Pretty please?”

Beca’s mouth goes dry and she’s suddenly hyper-aware of how soft Emily’s hands are in hers. She’s so freaking close. And those _eyes_. Illegal. Beca can’t even meet them for more than half a second. 

“Pretty please with cherry on top?”

Her thumbs stroke the back of Beca’s hands and she needs Emily to let go _right now_.

“Fine,” she snaps, wrenching herself free, “I’ll see if I’m available.” She knows full well that she has no plans for that night. “That’s a _maybe_ ,” she clarifies as Emily’s eyes widen. 

“Yes! I’ll take it!”

Beca feels drained. From the dancing, sure, but also from whatever the hell kind of move Emily just pulled on her. Apparently that needs to be added to the ever-growing list of things Emily Junk can do with little to no effort: convince an open mic night hater to go to an open mic night. 

“Maybe,” Beca mutters to herself.

*** * ***

In retrospect, it was never a maybe. 

Somewhere in her subconscious, Beca knew that the second Emily grabbed her hands and begged her to come to open mic night, she was gonna end up going. And so, despite all of her efforts to avoid Friday night shifts, Beca finds herself wandering into the shop halfway through the event.

At least, she thinks she walks into the shop.

It’d been completely transformed — the ceiling lights dimmed, the tables adorned with tiny tea light candles, the counter lined with trays of free leftover pastries and beverages. A string of lights stretches along the edge of the stage, the extra chairs set up around it almost at full capacity. 

If festive coziness is a thing, this setup pulls it off spectacularly well. Like stepping into a classy pillowfort. Or a coffee-scented treehouse.

“Beca?”

And here to complete the picture — wearing faded jeans, heeled boots, a cardigan over a flannel button-up, and a beanie like some model from the autumn issue of a hipster fashion catalog — is none other than Emily Junk. 

It’s the first time Beca’s seen her out of leggings and a hoodie, and she looks…hot.

Beca blinks and somehow manages a “Hi,” without choking. 

“You’re here,” Emily says, elated but also clearly surprised.

“Well, yeah.” She shrugs, defaulting to aloofness. “You asked me to be.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“What can I say? I’m a wild card, baby.”

Emily smiles. “Sure are.”

And from there Beca doesn’t know what to say. First, because she’d said something pretty stupid and Emily hadn’t made fun of her. Second, because Emily’s smiling at her with such soft sincerity that she literally forgets how to speak. It has to be this ambiance. The dimmed lights. The candles. The general buzz of anticipation from the performers and the audience. 

All of it’s making everything fuzzy and warm and hazy, making Emily look all glowy.

Before she can find her voice to fill the awkward pause with yet another stupid comment, Emily suddenly reaches out to thread her fingers through a strand of Beca’s hair. 

“I’ve never seen you wear your hair down before,” she says, either oblivious to the stroke Beca is currently suffering or politely ignoring it. 

“Wh-uh. You know. The…uh. Regulations. Rules,” Beca stammers. “Hair tied back.” 

“Mmm, well it looks nice like this.” Emily tucks the strand behind Beca’s ear. “You look pretty.” 

There are about a thousand snarky quips Beca could — _should_ — fire back , but her mind goes completely blank as Emily’s fingertips brush against her ear, a violent tingle shooting down her spine and setting her entire body on fire. She’s pretty sure her breath catches noticeably, but she can’t even find it in herself to be embarrassed of her reaction because _what the hell is this?_ This blatant flirting? These compliments? 

Did she like, fall through a portal into some parallel universe? Is that why the shop looks so different? Is that why she’s getting butterflies from Emily’s smile all of a sudden?

Beca then has a dizzying realization that maybe…it _isn’t_ all of a sudden. That Emily’s smile had always made her feel bubbly, had always made her feel lighter and warmer and — ugh. 

Happier.

Someone calls Emily’s name from the stage. “Oh, shoot. Gotta go,” she says. “But hey, you should put your name down! There’re still some spots open.”

The ridiculousness of the suggestion clears up some of the dizziness and Beca scoffs. “Hell no.”

Emily pouts as she departs. “No fun.”

“Yeah, yeah, break a leg.” 

She skips off and Beca lets out a slow breath, feeling winded like she’d just run a mile. Jeez, what’s gotten into her?

She’s still recovering when Chloe emerges from the crowd.

“Umm, okay. Hi?” She looks just as confused to see Beca here as Emily was. “When did _you_ get here? _Why_ are you here?”

Beca hadn’t thought of an excuse for Chloe. Why _is_ she here? Live music? Oh, talent. Potential clients! She came here to scout potential clients. Yeah, that sounds legit. Sounds professional. Chloe’d buy that. Right?

“I just came to see…” Beca trails off and motions to the stage, indicating the performances. But it’s the mother of all bad timings because, as announced, Emily’s the one setting up at the mic. 

Clarity crosses Chloe’s face. “Ah.”

“ _No_.”

“To see Em —”

“Not her,” Beca says quickly. Too quickly. “Not…no, just…” She knows the exact gleeful expression Chloe’s wearing without even looking up. “Get off my back, Beale,” she snaps. 

“Aw. You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

“Kay, I’m leaving.”

“No!” Chloe blocks her way as she turns towards the door. “You gotta watch her perform at least once!”

“I don’t _gotta_ do anything,” she retorts. But she lets Chloe steer her back, lets her shove a tiny cup of hot chocolate and a pastry in her hands, lets her give her a patronizing pat on the head. 

“Enjoy!” Chloe says with aggressive cheerfulness. Then ducks behind the counter to fiddle with the stereo system that’s apparently doubling as a soundboard. 

Blowing out a breath, Beca leans against the back wall as Emily settles onto the stool on stage, adjusting one mic stand by her guitar and bringing the other up to her face. Without so much as an introductory remark, she starts strumming at the strings and dives right into the song. 

It’s a slow, mellow tune. Simple chords tied together in a soulful melody. Then Emily starts to sing, sounding different from when she sings along to the music playing in the shop. 

_Tell me what you see_ _  
__When you look in the mirror_ _  
__Cause I'm struggling to believe_ _  
__What I'm seeing is real right now_

A little deeper, Beca notes. Words definitely more enunciated. Way, way more emotion. 

And she has to force herself to focus on the technical aspects like some music-obsessed psycho because if she lets herself think about how good Emily sounds, how expertly she plays the guitar, how beautiful she looks on stage…well, okay, now she’s thinking about it. Now she has to acknowledge how infatuated she is with Emily.

But just, like, _musically_ , she tells herself. Her musical talents. Nothing else. Just…just her…her… 

_With eyes like the stars, but ocean blue_ _  
__Girl, it'd be work to get over you_ _  
__But I ain't giving up anytime soon_

…everything. Absolutely everything. All of it. Her voice. Her eyes. Her smile. The way she giggles at Beca’s dumb jokes. The way she indulges in their stupid little race. The way she brightens up Beca’s day in every sense of the word.

This isn’t exactly the time and place Beca would’ve wanted to have this not-so-surprising epiphany, but here she is. Staring up at the girl singing on stage. Thinking back to all the little moments leading up to this one.

Realizing that she’s been crushing on Emily for an embarrassingly long time and just hadn’t consciously acknowledged it. 

Beca quietly stops breathing, thinking about that for a second. 

She lets it sink in. Then closes her eyes. 

“Damnit,” she whispers to herself.

Predictable. She’s so freaking predictable. 

The first non-Chloe girl to appear in her life and only after a few short months, Emily’s managed to make herself at home in Beca’s constantly-irritated heart like it’s no big deal. _So fucking unoriginal_ , Beca thinks, _the cynic falling for the optimist, the stick in the mud falling for the human ray of sunshine._

Her life is no better than a cheap rom-com.

“Thank you!” Emily says, finishing her song. With the realization still fresh on her mind, Emily’s blinding smile hits Beca like a punch to the chest. Man. This is gonna make working together _so_ annoying. 

Looking uncertain, Emily lingers on the stage. “Uh, sorry. I don’t want to hog the spotlight or anything, but I want to do one more song, if that’s cool with everyone.” She shrugs off her guitar as the audience murmurs indifferently. “Thought I’d do karaoke, for once,” she explains excitedly, tapping away on Chloe’s tablet.

Then she looks up to make direct eye contact with Beca.

“And I thought I’d invite a _super_ talented coworker to come join me.”

“Oh, good lord,” Beca groans, shrinking in on herself as the entire audience turns curiously to see who Emily’s talking about. “No fucking way.”

“I mean, no pressure,” Emily says, all innocent and casual, “but there’s a second mic up here, just for you.”

With half her face hidden behind her hand, Beca glares daggers up at that sunny smile; she so badly wants to give her the finger, but there are kids in the audience. So she settles with viciously mouthing _hate you so much_ , to which Emily responds with a cheeky smile, sticking out her tongue. 

Ugh. Unfair.

“Come on, it’s a song you know!” she calls. “You’re not gonna make me sing all of it by myself, are you?”

Though Beca’s tempted to tell her that’s exactly what she’s about to do, the last thing she wants is to draw even more attention to herself. In any case, Emily taps on the tablet to start the track and there’s no way her retort would be heard over the intro music.

She does know this song. Obviously she knows this song, it’s on the shop’s freaking playlist that _she_ made. 

“ _I try to fight it_ ,” Emily starts, pointing at Beca and narrowing her eyes in a challenge.

 _But every time it's like a brand new car or a drug_ _  
__and you know you're gonna try it_ _  
__When they tell you that you can't do that but you will_ _  
__and you know you're gonna like it_ _  
__When you light a flame it grows_ _  
__If you set a bomb it’s gonna blow_

She tries, but watching Emily sing her heart out and gesture dramatically on stage, it’s physically impossible for Beca to fight off a smile. Just as it is impossible to fight off the stupid little tug on her heart when Emily shimmies and shoots her a wink as she sings, “ _when I see your pretty little face_.”

Oh, so now she’s blatantly flirting with her on stage? 

And just like that, there it is. That spark, that competitive flame that Emily somehow ignites in her with the snap of a finger. 

Fine. 

Fine!

“Fine,” she growls, shrugging away from the wall and striding towards the stage. 

Emily’s entire face lights up as Beca hops up next to her, smiling from ear to ear like she’d been given the best present in her life. Though the sight of it practically knocks Beca off her feet, she carefully keeps her expression full of reluctance, like she can’t believe she’s doing this.

It’s so annoying, the way she has to fake irritation to maintain this dumb façade. 

Beca only has a beat to half-heartedly glare at Emily, to make sure her mic is actually on, and to think _fuck it who cares_ before starting to sing the next verse.

 _You give me one look_ _  
__And I'll be on one knee with the plastic ring_ _  
__God, and I don't even know you_  
Yeah, we could run this back one million times

And even through the immense embarrassment of getting pressured into singing in front of all these people, Beca has to take a second to admire how their voices blend together as Emily joins with the backing vocals, how they harmonize flawlessly like they’d rehearsed this performance.

“ _But it’s no use, I keep falling too fast_ ,” she sings, breath stuttering super inconveniently when she catches Emily’s smile and eyes softening at the high note, “ _Why do I only want what I don’t have?_ ”

This is the cheesiest shit she’s ever done in her life. Not only singing karaoke, but singing a dumb love song. Singing a dumb love song with her dumb work crush. At a dumb open mic night.

And it’s like, _what the hell?_ because she’s supposed to hate this kind of thing. This cringey, sappy, duet nonsense. Instead, she’s — dare she say it — _enjoying_ herself, leaning into the tackiness of it all, getting swept up in the rush of performing. 

She shouldn’t be surprised, really. Even though she hates this kind of shit, Emily’s energy pulls her along — just like it’s always been pulling at her. It’s easier than dealing with her clients, Beca realizes, how musically in sync they both are. Creating perfect harmonies. Swapping lead and back-up parts without any cues. Practically reading each other’s minds.

It’s almost a shame that the song winds down to an end, and Beca would _never_ admit that she wants to keep going, but…yeah, she kind of wants to keep going, keep being dumb and goofy with Emily.

Then the adrenaline rushes out of her as the crowd breaks into applause and cheers and Beca never wants to fucking do this again.

She’s barely taken a breath before Emily tackles her in a hug. She squeezes too tight and she’s all sweaty and she almost lifts Beca off the floor, and while the last thing she wants is to be hugged after being subjected to this humiliating experience, Beca doesn’t resist. She doesn’t, like, hug her back, though. Because that’d be ridiculous. That’d be like acknowledging that this was fun.

So she whines, pretending to hate it. She’s pretending to hate a lot of things tonight.

But pretending to hate the feeling of Emily hugging her is pretty damn hard. Especially when Emily pulls away, holding them apart at arm’s length, smiling with so much unbridled joy that she looks like she’s about to kiss her.

Beca kind of wants her to.

No, she _really_ wants her to. Even if it’s in front of all of these people, she wants her to.

“Thank you,” Emily says quietly, beaming. Like Beca had done her some kind of favor instead of viciously rising up to a challenge. “You’re the best.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Beca rolls her eyes and starts backing off the stage before she acts on impulse and does something incredibly stupid. “I know I am.”

With her heart thudding painfully in her chest, she scurries back to her secluded corner in the back, away from Emily’s heart-stopping smile, away from Chloe’s smirk, away from all these overwhelming feelings that she doesn’t know how to handle like an adult.

Ugh, seriously. Damnit. 

She’s a fucking goner.

*** * ***

“Here it is.”

Beca looks up as Chloe emerges from the back room, dragging along a gigantic chalkboard twice her height behind her. 

“Dude, what? That thing is enormous!”

“Well, yeah. It’s gotta be, so people can read it from the register.” She heaves the board up to rest flat on top of the pick-up counter and turns to Beca. “So? You still up for it?”

Grumbling, Beca touches a finger to the matte surface. This isn’t exactly what she’d imagined when Chloe had offered her pizza and wine as payment for revamping their menu board. She expected something less vast. Less daunting. 

“Here’s the general layout again.” Chloe passes her a rough pencil sketch of the board, all the menu items laid out in neat little sections. “But you’re artsier than I am, so do what you want.”

“No, _you’re_ artsier. You just have shitty handwriting.”

Beca breaks open the brand new box of paint markers as she glowers at the board, trying to envision the finished product. It’s already half an hour past closing; this could take hours. 

“You don’t have to finish tonight,” Chloe says, reading her mind. The _pop!_ of the wine cork echoes around the empty shop. “Here’s your payment.”

“Cheapskate,” Beca mutters, but nonetheless accepts the glass. 

She uncaps the paint marker. Leans over the board. Hovers the tip just above the surface. 

And freezes there, terrified of messing up. Penciling in a draft to trace would be great, but there’s no way that would show up on this material. She leans back, looking at the board again. Then leans back down. 

Chloe peeks over her shoulder. “Are you sure you’re good?”

“Yes,” Beca bites out.

She hums, clearly not buying it. Ignoring her or at least trying really hard to, Beca scowls and adjusts her grip on the paint marker for the five-thousandth time. Nothing in life should be this permanent. Nothing should call for this high a level of perfectionism.

“Just start writing and you’ll stop overthinking it.”

“Don’t _rush_ me.”

Chloe tsks but backs off, thankfully, to pour herself a glass. Taking a deep breath, Beca hesitates for ten more seconds before finally touching the marker to the board.

At least with website building or app managing, she could go back and fix things if she messed up. Writing out a simple, four-letter word like _menu_ has never given her this much stress. What if she misspells _croissant_? Or, god forbid, _coffee_? Chloe would never let her hear the end of it.

But then she stops worrying and starts zoning out, the anxiety leaving her as she gets into the flow of it like Chloe had predicted. She even risks a few sips of wine. 

There’s a certain amount of absurdity to how she’s spending this Saturday night. Hanging out in this cursed shop long after they’ve locked up, drinking cheap wine, struggling over this menu board like her life depends on it. Beca’s pretty sure if she’d been asked to do this a few months ago, she would’ve flat-out refused.

Maybe Emily had a point. Maybe she _does_ like this shop now.

Ugh.

Chloe materializes behind her again. “Wow. Looks great so far, Bec.”

She responds with a noncommittal sound, too focused to formulate words. Her hand is cramping and she’s barely finished one column. There’s absolutely no way she’s finishing this tonight. 

Breathing out a sigh and releasing the tension she’d built up in her shoulders, Beca leans back and squints at all of the drink options she’d just written down. “Do we really offer this much shit? Jesus.”

“And to think it only took you a year to memorize them,” Chloe laughs, refilling her glass. 

“Still don’t know what a fucking cortado is,” Beca mutters. She holds up the pencil sketch version. “And god. The food items here don’t even cover half the stuff you concoct and put on those shelves.”

“Those are daily specials! People have to come in to see what they are.”

“Well what the hell is the point of a menu, then?”

“It’s the principle of the thing.”

Beca scoffs, cracking her aching fingers. “Whatever.”

They fall into a comfortable, easy silence — Chloe scrolling through her tablet, Beca working out the kinks in her neck and stretching out her hands. The pizza’s cold now but Beca still inhales three slices. 

She looks around the empty shop as she chews, thoughtful. A few months ago, this place felt so forlorn, so hopeless, headed steadily into the pits of bankruptcy hell. And now, while nothing physical about the shop — except for that freaking stage — had changed, it gives off a sense of hominess. Stability. 

She’s reminiscing about the pre-delivery days when Chloe suddenly scoffs.

“Why’re you smiling like that, weirdo?”

Beca immediately drops it. “Can’t even _smile_ here without being called out.”

“It’s freaky when _you_ do it. What’re you thinking about?”

“I dunno, I’m just, like.” Beca shrugs and gestures vaguely to the shop. “How I’m…happy for you, I guess. Like, this is what you wanted, right? This place. This business. Serving people. Making whatever the hell kind of pastries you want. Making fancy-ass hand-written menu boards like this.” She shrugs again. “You’re living your dream and I’m proud of you — eugh, no. Don’t give me that look.”

“Beca,” Chloe says, sounding touched beyond words, expression melting. “Oh, my god.”

“Don’t.”

“You’re gonna make me cry.”

“ _Don’t_.” Beca holds up a finger in warning. “Oh, my god! Stop! No!”

But Chloe’s already out of her chair and wrapping Beca up in a hug, pinning her arms to her sides. Too tired and tipsy to fight her off, Beca goes limp and waits for it to be over.

“I love you.”

“I hate this.”

“I know.” Chloe releases her, smiling. “You’re the best.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Beca rolls her eyes, trying to play it off. “You couldn’t have done any of this without me, blah, blah, et cetera, et cetera.” 

“Mmm yes. Well. You…and Grandma Dee’s investment.” 

“Ew, do you _have_ to bring her up?” Beca scrunches up her nose. “We were having a moment.”

Chloe winces. “Sorry. Saw her today, so she just came to mind.” Her expression sours like she’s recalling an unpleasant part of the day, and Beca rolls her eyes again, this time supremely annoyed.

“One day I’m gonna throw hands, I swear to god. No, I’m serious!” she adds when Chloe starts laughing. “She’s so fucking annoying.”

“She just, like, you know. Has high expectations. And a strong personality.” 

Beca grunts and sips angrily at her wine. “Hate that she brings you down so much. You’re the last person who deserves that.”

Chloe blinks at her, surprised. “Oh,” she says. 

“What?”

Shaking her head and pressing her lips together, Chloe shrugs.

“What?” Beca presses, growing defensive. 

“Nothing,” she says airily. “You just…I mean, thanks. Really, thank you for your concern. It means a lot, coming from you.” Then her genuine smile turns teasing. “But you’re like, kind of a sap tonight. Actually, you’ve kind of been a sap for a while now. You’ve gotten _soft_.”

Her tone shifts into something mischievous and Beca knows what Chloe’s implying and _who_ she’s implying is the cause. 

“Am I not allowed to have emotions now?” she grumbles, abandoning her fourth slice and her wine to escape back to the board and avoid this conversation. “Can’t do anything without being criticized.”

“Yeah, deflect all you want,” Chloe calls, “but you can’t run from your feelings forever!”

“Shush. I’m concentrating.”

Ducking her head to hide the flush that had no doubt risen to her cheeks, Beca leans over the board again. This might be awful, carpal-tunnel-inducing work, but it’s a reprieve, a welcome distraction, really, from the dangerous territory Chloe’s trying to drag her into. 

Screw being soft. She _can_ run from her feelings. She’ll show Chloe.

*** * ***

The shop’s phone starts ringing less than five minutes before closing one night. 

Beca stares at it, letting it ring once, twice, three times. She could just ignore it. Let it go to voicemail. Pretend she’d closed up early and missed it. Anything, really, to avoid putting together another batch of orders. Who the hell’s drinking coffee this late anyway?

Finally she groans, praying at the very least it’s not another delivery order since she’d literally just sent Emily out on her last run, and picks up. “Caffè Bel-”

“Hi!” It’s none other than Emily herself, sounding completely out of breath. “Hi. Okay, don’t freak out, but I got a flat tire.”

“Holy shit,” Beca says, freaking out. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine! It wasn’t like, a sudden thing. I was riding and I realized that it was getting bumpier and harder to control it, so I stopped. All good. All safe.” There’s a steady thumping from her end, like she’s speed walking. “I just wanted to let you know in case these people call the shop and complain that their order’s late.”

“Where are you? I’ll come pick you up.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, I’m not that far! I just passed Sorrento’s, so the delivery won’t be _too_ late. Hopefully.”

“All right, hang tight,” Beca says, already reaching for her jacket and the keys to the shop. “I’ll lock up early and come get you.”

“No, don’t worry!” she says again. “I’ll be fine. I’m a fast walker.”

“Dude, that address is more than twelve blocks from Sorrento’s,” Beca argues. “That’s at least a ten minute walk.”

Emily scoffs. “Yeah, maybe for you, pipsqueak. I can do it in six.”

“ _And_ you’ll have to walk home.”

“I’ll be off the clock by then, you’re not liable for my safety after that.”

“Emily.” Beca can’t quite manage to keep the smile out of her voice. “Stop joking around.”

“But you like it when I joke around.”

“And stop walking,” she says, ignoring both the comment and the way her stomach flips at the playful tone of it. “Just stay put and I’ll pick you up.”

“Ha! We’ll see about that,” Emily counters. “Betcha I can finish the delivery before you find me!”

Beca quickly locks up the shop, just barely remembering to flip the sign to CLOSED before she does. She jogs to her car and clambers inside, mumbling, “I’m this close to throwing hands with you, Junk.”

“Gotta catch me in order to do that, Mitchell.”

“Emily.”

“Beca.”

The engine growls to life, a fitting representation of the exact noise Beca wants to make. She peels out of her parking spot one-handed. “Stay _put_ or I swear to god,” she threatens.

“No. Bye!” 

The line goes dead. Hissing out a curse, Beca glares at the phone. And sees that this isn’t her cell. She’d accidentally brought out the shop’s phone into her car. She curses again. Whatever, she’s opening tomorrow anyway; she’ll just bring it back in the morning. 

Within a few minutes she’s in front of Sorrento’s, and though it comes as no surprise that Emily’s nowhere to be found, Beca still takes the time to let out a long groan of pure frustration. She pulls up the delivery address and navigates her way there while driving painfully slow, scanning the sidewalks for any sign of Emily or her bike. 

By the time she finds her, she’s pulled up to the address that’d made the order. Beca shifts into park and leans back in her seat as she watches Emily hop up the stairs and ring the doorbell. Her bike is left leaning against a signpost, the front tire noticeably deflated. 

Beca rolls down her window as Emily returns to the sidewalk, bag now empty. 

“Get in,” she calls. “I’m driving you home.”

“Oh.” Emily walks over and leans down to peer into Beca’s car. “Sorry ma’am. I’m not supposed to accept rides from strangers.”

“Emily…” Beca sighs. 

“Okay, okay. Give me a minute, then.” Reaching into her bag and pulling out an honest-to-god socket wrench, Emily bends down and starts unscrewing the front tire from the bike frame as Beca watches, flabbergasted. 

“You just. Like. Carry a wrench around in your purse?”

“Well, yeah. In case something like this happens,” Emily says nonchalantly. She flicks a lever above the brake pads and the front tire pops out. “See? Now this can fit in your trunk.”

“Whatever, biker nerd. Hurry it up.” 

Beca pops her trunk, thinking never in a million years would she have expected to have feelings for some weirdo who casually carries around a socket wrench. But here she is. Giving this dumb, adorable, sweet, flirty coworker a ride home. 

Her life is so hard. 

Emily finally settles into the passenger seat and immediately slides it back to accommodate her ten-mile legs. “My place isn’t that far, just keep going up 57th until Arch Street. Ohh, you have seat warmers,” she adds, sinking back with a blissful sigh. 

“What, your bike doesn’t come with one?”

Ignoring her, Emily picks up the shop’s phone, stashed in the center console cup holder. Laughing, she asks, “You brought this with you?”

“On accident, because you made me rush,” Beca grunts. “Why did you call the shop? You know I always have my phone on me.”

“ _I_ was rushing too. The shop’s number is before yours in my contacts.”

She frowns. “Uh, in what alphabet does ‘Caffè’ come before ‘Beca’?”

Emily hesitates, biting back a smile. “Well. I don’t have you saved as ‘Beca,’” she admits. 

Mind racing, Beca squints out the windshield. _Not saved as Beca? What the hell?_

“What the hell,” she voices her thoughts, “am I saved as, then?”

Emily hesitates again, clearly intent on making this difficult. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s my name, of course I’m worried about it.”

“It’s nothing bad.”

“Then tell me.”

“No.”

“I’m giving you a ride home, the least you can do is tell me that!”

“I didn’t ask you to drive me home!”

Beca slams down on the brakes. “Fine, get out.” 

“Nooo,” Emily whines, abruptly losing her attitude. “Your car’s so toasty. And…seat warmers.” She looks at Beca with those cursed puppy dog eyes and pouts, sticking out her bottom lip.

“Ugh.” Beca can’t really think of anything else to say because her neck suddenly feels all warm and her heart’s beating way too fast for comfort. 

This is why crushing on people is the absolute worst. 

And it’s so freaking unfair, how easily and unwittingly Emily can throw Beca off her rhythm. How one, stupid, puppy-dog look can make her feel all fuzzy and gooey like this. She’s supposed to be the level-headed no-nonsense one. Not this…this dumb, lovesick idiot. 

Now on edge, Beca grits her teeth and resumes driving, albeit a bit more recklessly now, determined to get to Emily’s apartment as fast as possible so she can stop being so cute and distracting in the passenger seat. Which is a pointless effort; she’s just gonna have to deal with the same Emily tomorrow. And the day after that. And for the foreseeable future. 

They finally pull up to a corner apartment building and Emily unbuckles her seatbelt, patting the seat longingly like it’s a goddamn pet she’s leaving behind, before exiting the car. She peers back inside before closing the door. “Thanks for driving me home,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Not unless you tell me what I’m saved as.”

She laughs. “ _Bye_ , Beca.”

The door closes and Beca huffs out a breath as she leans back in her seat, stewing in the silence. The car rocks a little as the trunk closes, and Beca glances out the window in time to see Emily smirk over her shoulder, tuck the loose wheel under her arm, and blow her a kiss. 

Jesus. This girl.

Annoyed and flustered, Beca just shakes her head as drums her fingers on the steering wheel, impatiently waiting for Emily to get inside already so she can drive home and put this whole debacle behind her. 

Emily deposits her broken-down bike on the porch, probably to fix later. But then she pauses, pivots on her heel, and starts making her way back to the car. Beca exaggerates her confused expression and throws her hands up in a universal _what’s going on?_ gesture. 

She doesn’t know what to expect until Emily’s hovering at her door and tapping on the window with the corner of her phone. She reluctantly rolls down her window. “What? Forget something?”

Emily just leans down, casually resting her arms on the sill, and wordlessly holds out her phone to the contact listing with Beca’s number, entered under… 

**Tiny Angry Barista** ☕️🎧❤️

Beca glares at the name. Then glares up at Emily, who’s smiling serenely down at her. 

“Accurate, right?”

Beca raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”

“Yeah! You’re tiny, angry, and a barista. That’s what the coffee emoji’s for.”

“And the headphones?”

“Your other job, duh.”

“And the heart?”

Emily’s smile grows. “What, can’t guess?”

Beca opens her mouth but she suddenly can’t breathe, much less speak. She closes it again. Then tries to roll her eyes and fails miserably. 

Okay. So…okay. All right. Cool. Great. This is…yeah, this is totally fine. 

Except that it’s not fine, Beca doesn’t know what the _hell_ is happening, can’t even wrap her mind around the implications of the stupid heart emoji and the question and the way Emily’s now blushing and shyly gauging her reaction and… 

…god, and Beca’s just sitting here like a fucking idiot, not knowing what to do or how to respond.

“Hey, you wanted to know.”

“I…yeah,” Beca agrees pathetically.

Emily tilts her head a little, probably wondering whether Beca has more to say. But then she smiles, leans forward into the car, and presses her lips against Beca’s cheek, soft and sweet. “Good night,” she whispers, breath warm and fluttering.

And before Beca can say a word — not that she’s able to speak at all right now — Emily pulls her head back out of the window, gives a little wave, and turns back towards her apartment. 

Blinking rapidly, cheeks burning, the spot Emily had kissed her literally on fire, Beca snaps back to reality and blankly watches Emily climb the stairs back up to her porch. No way. No way in hell is she gonna let her walk away like that, having stunned Beca into silence. No way is she gonna give Emily that satisfaction. 

Beca jabs at the hazard lights and scrambles out of her car. 

“Hey!” Her voice carries clearly, almost too clearly, through the crisp air as she chases after Emily. “Hey, you! Immorally tall biker chick! Hold it!”

At her door, Emily turns around slowly, already smiling like she was expecting this. “What? Did I do something wrong?”

“Y-yeah,” Beca stutters, striding up the stairs two at a time and stumbling onto the porch.

“Am I in trouble?”

“Yes.”

“Is it because I —?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Beca snaps. 

Then, before she can chicken out, she forces herself into Emily’s space, pushes up on her toes, and presses their lips together. Emily immediately melts into it, her body softening against Beca’s as she pulls her in by the waist. Pulse still racing from the kiss on the cheek and from her mad dash from the car to the porch, Beca is probably seconds from suffering a literal heart attack at this point, but she doesn’t dare pull away, not even to catch a breath. 

Because she’s finally kissing Emily and Emily is kissing her back and it’s perfect, of course, because it’s Emily and apparently _everything_ she does has to be fucking perfect, including kissing. 

She’s so addictingly gentle and warm in every way, from the way her lips move against Beca’s, soft and sure, to the way she pulls them close, their bodies pressed flush against each other. Despite the heat rushing through every vein in her damn body, Beca shivers, finally releasing the breath she’d been holding.

Emily pulls back a little, expelling a short breath of laughter. “Took you long enough,” she mumbles.

Reeling, Beca settles back onto her heels to give her an exasperated look. “Seriously? Is that _seriously_ the line you’re going with right now?”

“Yes.” Emily smiles happily and leans in, surprising Beca with another kiss. “I’ve been waiting — for you to do this — for _weeks_ ,” she says, punctuating each phrase with additional kisses. 

“I…holy shit, okay,” Beca says weakly, feeling faint. This is way more than she bargained for; part of her feels kind of dumb for thinking she’d be able to confront and one-up someone like Emily Junk. “You, uh. Jeez. You could’ve done it yourself.”

Emily hums, brushing her nose against Beca’s. “Yeah, but…” She touches their lips together again, and Beca can’t believe she’s already lost count of how many times they’ve kissed. “…that would’ve been too easy.” 

“Right,” Beca scoffs, regaining a bit of their old rhythm. “Wow. Everything’s a game to you, huh?”

“Mmm, a little bit.” But then Emily smiles down at her, cheeks all pink, eyes soft and melty and sincere. “Not this, though,” she says, brushing a thumb along Beca’s jawline. “Not you.”

And there she goes again, rendering Beca speechless, turning all her insides to mush. It’s infuriating, really, the way Emily can say these kinds of things so casually like they don’t create tectonic shifts in Beca’s world.

She breathes out slowly, at a loss for words, trying very hard not to pass out. “I’m…I’m just…okay.” Beca takes a deliberate step backwards. “I should. I should go. You, uh, need to fix that —” she gestures to the deconstructed bike “— and we both have an early start, so…” 

Emily’s still giving her that smile and Beca almost falls backwards down the stairs. “See you tomorrow, Beca,” she says softly.

“Yeah. See you, Emily.” 

Somehow she makes it down the stairs and into her idling car. The window is still open, filling the car with freezing air, but not even that could bring her down right now. 

Beca drives home in giddy silence, smiling to herself like some goofy idiot. For the first time in her life, she can’t wait to wake up at the crack of dawn for her shift.

*** * ***

When Beca sleepily shuffles up to unlock the shop the next morning, she pauses with the key only half-inserted in the lock. 

Something’s off. There’s noise coming from inside. 

Music. Loud music.

She frowns at her phone as she opens the door, wondering if she misread her schedule, if someone else has the morning shift today. But no, the door was locked, the lights are still off, and, yup, that’s her name on the calendar, scheduled to open. 

The music is coming from the kitchen, the sound all tinny and flat like it’s blasting from the ancient boombox Jessica and Ashley keep in there. But Beca recognizes the song — it’s literally one of _hers_ , published by an old client — and that’s not the kind of music either of the bakers would play, much less put on blast for the whole neighborhood to hear.

Without even taking off her jacket, Beca wanders towards the kitchen, kind of annoyed. If Chloe was gonna come in early today, she could’ve at least let Beca know ahead of time. God knows she could use the extra hour of sleep. 

She enters the kitchen, a sharp reprimand on her tongue.

But it’s not Chloe.

It’s Emily.

She’s alone, neither Jessica nor Ashley in sight. Beca was right; the music is coming from the boombox, an aux cable linking it to Emily’s phone. The dial’s turned all the way up to max volume. 

And Emily’s dancing like no one’s watching, which, to be fair, no one’s _supposed_ to be watching. 

Under the blinding lights of the kitchen, Emily looks like a pop star performing for a crowd of thousands, and she’s certainly acting the part. She’s using a whisk as a microphone, singing along passionately as she dances around the kitchen, throwing in unnecessary movements here and there and stopping dramatically in her tracks to act out heartfelt lines with facial expressions and hand gestures. 

Beca watches, teeth clamped firmly over her lip to keep from laughing out loud. She doesn’t even bother ducking out of the doorway to hide; Emily’s clearly too engrossed in the song to notice her standing there. 

And this isn’t exactly how she’d imagined seeing Emily again after kissing last night, but Beca can’t complain. This is quite a sight to start the day with, the most wholesome sight for sore eyes. It’s so pure, so goofy, so _Emily_. 

She patiently waits for the song to end before making her presence known. “Dude, you’re gonna wake up the whole block.”

Emily just about jumps out of her skin. 

“Wh- _Beca_ ,” she splutters, lunging for her phone and yanking the cable out before the next song can start. They both wince as a burst of feedback assaults their ears. “Y-you…you’re…early,” she stammers, turning beet red.

“So are you,” Beca accuses. “You don’t start for two hours!”

“I…! Yeah,” she finishes lamely, still blushing furiously. “I, um, well. I couldn’t really sleep much last night. And, uh.” Emily fidgets with the whisk she’s still holding, chewing on her lip like she’s mulling over her words. “And I…wanted to see you. So I came in early.”

Beca’s pretty sure her heart stops beating for a solid five seconds. “Oh,” is all she can say, looking at Emily’s bashful expression, her nervous smile, her flushed cheeks. 

She wants to kiss her again. _God_ she wants to kiss her again so much. 

“I mean, yeah.” Beca finally manages to throw together a coherent sentence in her brain. “I didn’t sleep much either,” she admits, and joins Emily in blushing when she realizes just how much that confession reveals. 

“Couldn’t stop thinking about me?” Emily teases.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about _me_?” Beca shoots back. “Is that why you’re blasting my music?”

“What? No, this is just some random indie playlist —” Emily frowns down at her phone. “Wait. This is your…? You produced this song?”

“That whole album, actually.” She shrugs. “That’s the only one that got semi-popular though. I’m touched you know all the lyrics.”

“It’s catchy,” Emily says, half-heartedly defensive. “Ugh, now I _really_ have to acknowledge that you’re musically talented. Here I was, thinking your dancing and karaoke were just, like, continuous flukes.”

Beca scoffs. “Jeez. So determined to hate on me.”

“Yeah, well.” Emily closes the gap between them, looping her arms around Beca’s neck. “As much as I want to, that’s kind of looking impossible now.”

And there it is again, that abrupt and untraceable shift from bantering to flirting that violently throws Beca off-balance. Emily’s pressing closer, leaning in, brushing their noses together. It’s all Beca can do to remain upright and not collapse right there. 

“I think I like you way too much,” Emily whispers, smiling. Her words brush against Beca’s lips. 

A sudden clanging, rattling sound comes from the kitchen, inducing Beca’s fifth heart attack in just as many seconds. They jump apart at the sound of the back door opening, Jessica and Ashely apparently having returned from wherever they’d gone.

“Th-they were grabbing some things from the farmer’s market,” Emily explains. Her face is bright red again. “I, uh. Offered to help them with prep since I got here early. So…uh.” She reluctantly releases Beca and backs into the kitchen.

Similarly, Beca retreats into the darkness of the shop, hand fumbling blindly along the wall for the light switch. “No, yeah, go for it. I, uh. I have to get this side set up anyway.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Emily hovers in the doorway. “I’ll see you later?”

Her stomach’s still doing somersaults, but Beca somehow pulls off her usual eye roll. “Yeah, Emily. You’ll see me later.” 

“Just making sure.”

And with one last lingering look, Emily flashes her a smile and disappears into the kitchen.

*** * ***

As soon as the morning rush dies down, Emily sidles up to Beca at the counter.

“Hey,” she says shyly, cheeks pink again.

Beca’s already smiling, already feeling warm and fuzzy and soft. “Hey yourself.” Ugh. She sounds absolutely enamored, even to her own ears. Good lord. What a sap. Soft. Chloe was right.

“I was wondering,” Emily starts, unaware of Beca’s internal cringing, “if you want to come with me on this run.”

“Uh. Shhh…ure?” Beca frowns, confused. “Like. Walking?”

“No? On my bike, duh.”

They stare at each other for a second, confused by the other’s confusion. 

“I have pegs,” Emily clarifies. 

“Oh, right. Wait, isn’t it illegal of people to ride on those?”

“Very.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “But sometimes I go the opposite way on one-way streets and do a rolling stop at stop signs, so this isn’t beyond me.”

Beca snickers. “Look at you. Such a delinquent.”

“What can I say?” Emily says, leaning in close. Really close. Too close. “I’m a wild card, baby.”

It’s her own ridiculous words thrown back at her. Coming from Emily, though, in that tone, in that secretive quietness, with that grin…it’s too much. Beca tries to groan, tries to frown, tries to do _anything_ but smile dopily. 

Spectacular failure.

“Ugh,” she says instead. 

“Cool. Let’s go, then.” Emily straightens and turns to Chloe, who’s busy filling the display case with off-menu cream puffs. “Hey, Chloe, do you mind covering the counter for a bit? Beca wants to come with me for this delivery.”

“Wha-hey! This is _your_ idea!”

Chloe looks between the two of them, eyes growing comically wide, but doesn’t say anything. Which is so much worse, in Beca’s opinion. “Okay,” she says at last, clearly holding back a gigantic smile. “I’d _love_ to.”

“Great!” Emily beams as she turns back to Beca and her mortified look of pure embarrassment. “You’re gonna have to carry the bag, though.”

“What? _Why_?”

“Pegs are on the back wheel. If I carry this, you won’t be able to stand back there.”

Beca scowls, hating the logic of it. 

She hates it even more when she heaves the delivery bag onto her back, because — even without looking in a mirror — she knows the thing looks ridiculously huge on her. The poorly-covered smiles on Emily and Chloe’s faces confirm her suspicions. 

“Hate you both,” she grunts.

“Wait, I wanna take a picture!”

“No!”

Beca rushes out the door before Chloe has a chance to pull out her phone, preferring to wait in the freezing cold over being photographed. Emily emerges seconds later, still holding back a laugh, and Beca sorely misses the good old days when a well-placed glare could get her to stop teasing. 

Whatever, being able to kiss her is like, somewhat of a tradeoff. 

As if she’s thinking the same thing, Emily softens and briefly grips Beca’s arm as she brushes past her, all spatial consideration forgotten. “You’re probably gonna give me shit about this, but…” She unhooks a spare helmet from the handlebars. “Can you put this on, just in case? I haven’t had anyone on the pegs in a while.”

Beca stares at it before looking up at Emily. “Oh. You planned this.”

“Yes, I did,” she confirms without hesitation. 

“What, you want me to yourself that badly?”

“Yes.” Emily’s smiling now. “I do.”

Beca scoffs, trying to make the sound as mocking as possible, but she can feel the heat rising to her cheeks. God. She really can’t catch a fucking break, can she?

She snatches the helmet out of Emily’s hands and shoves it on her head. “You think you’re so smooth.”

“Well, you’re turning red, so. Yeah, a little.” Emily unlocks her bike and settles on the seat before grinning at Beca. “Come on, blushy. We’re burning daylight.”

Annoyed but still hesitant, Beca hovers uncertainly behind the bike. “Won’t I be too heavy?”

“Beca, you weigh like, nothing.”

“Okay, rude.”

Using Emily’s shoulders for support, Beca steps up onto the pegs, adjusting her footing until she’s sure she’s stable. 

“Good?” Emily calls.

“Good.”

Then, as if she’s riding alone and not like she’s carrying a whole extra person, Emily starts pedaling with relative ease, whipping down the bike lane at breakneck speed. It’s both exhilarating and a little terrifying, and Beca unconsciously tightens her grip on Emily’s shoulders.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she calls, feeling like she’s slowing them down.

“I told you, you weigh nothing!”

“I’m also carrying like, three orders in this bag.”

“Ah, yes. With the fifty-pound croissant and the two-ton iced coffee.”

Beca rolls her eyes even though Emily can’t see, but as if sensing it, she slaps at Beca’s leg. 

“Hey!” Beca snaps. “Both hands on the wh-…thing!”

In response, Emily leans back and brings both hands up to cup her ears, letting go of the handlebars completely. “What? Can’t hear you! You said _no_ hands? On the what?”

“ _Emily!_ ”

She leans forward again, cackling, as Beca holds on for dear life. _Why_ she’s smiling like an idiot when she should be yelling at Emily more, Beca can’t figure out for the life of her. It’s so stupid, how she lets Emily get away with shit she’d usually get so annoyed over. 

It’s so stupid, liking someone. 

“First stop,” Emily announces. They’d gotten here in less than five minutes. She circles around behind Beca to retrieve the order. “Be right back!”

Everything about her is so goddamn fast. Beca can barely track her as she moves from her bike to the bag to the stairs and to the door. It’s one thing to race her from the comfort of the shop, blissfully unaware of how fast she’s making these deliveries until she’s charging back inside. It’s another thing to watch it happen.

Emily buzzes on the intercom and waits patiently. She looks over her shoulder at Beca, left babysitting her bike on the sidewalk, and shoots her a dazzling smile. 

This can’t be good for her health, the way every little thing Emily does makes Beca’s heart jump out of her chest like those goofy 90s cartoon characters. Like, Jesus. It’s just a smile. Does she _have_ to get all flustered over it? Can her body chill? 

She’s pretty sure her face is red when Emily makes her way back, but she can easily blame it on the cold air. 

“Hm. I like having you around,” Emily says, mounting her bike. “I don’t have to keep taking that bag on and off my back to get to the orders.”

Beca gives her a look. “Just get a rear rack like every other delivery biker.”

“Then you can’t ride with me.”

“That’s — I, well. _Yeah_ ,” she emphasizes, though she’s already forgotten what she’s arguing. Emily’s smiling at her, a sparkle of amusement in her eyes, and it’s super distracting. So she just huffs out a breath, dropping it. “Whatever. Let’s just go already.”

“Wait, wait!” Emily grabs her by the elbow before she can clamber back on the pegs. “Hang on.” Then, without further preamble, she pulls Beca in and kisses her. 

Caught incredibly off-guard, Beca lets out an involuntary squeak, blushing with unfathomable embarrassment at the sound as Emily tightens her grip to draw them even closer. Both of their lips are icy cold from the chilly air but Beca can _feel_ them warm up until they’re practically melting together.

It’s everything she’d been craving since last night. The same careful tenderness. The same gentle insistence. _But more_ , she thinks, shuddering when Emily deepens the kiss. 

It completely takes her breath away. 

They drift apart slowly, Emily’s eyes fluttering open like she’s waking from the happiest dream. “Wow,” she says, and even that one little syllable makes Beca’s entire body flush with warmth. “Mmm.Yeah. Worth the wait.”

Through the deafening pounding in her ears, Beca scoffs and wonders aloud, “Did you invite me on this run just so you can do this?”

Emily laughs, stomach shaking. “Maybe,” she says, scrunching her nose, and it’s so cute that Beca’s heart does a full backflip. “It felt inappropriate to do in the shop, so.”

“I mean, this is still kind of inappropriate,” Beca points out, though she’s smiling too hard to be taken seriously. 

“But Chloe can’t see us here.”

“ _You’re_ worried about Chloe?”

“Well, yeah. I don’t wanna get fired for fraternizing with coworkers.”

“Dude.” Beca laughs, shaking her head. “She would never fire you. You’re literally the best thing that’s ever happened to her shop.”

Emily hums, trailing a finger along the straps of Beca’s helmet. “Oh, am I? Just to her shop?”

“Ugh,” she groans, trying to pull away. “You’re so….”

“Cute? Awesome? Flawless?” Emily locks her arms around Beca, keeping her in place. “Adorable? Irresistible?”

“Annoying,” Beca finishes. But she leans in to press their lips together again, because yeah, Emily’s pretty fucking irresistible. And cute and awesome and flawless. And adorable. And so, _so_ annoying.

She could do this forever, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, freezing her ass off, kissing Emily Junk. And she would, except Emily starts trying to pull away, which is pretty rude of her.

“Beca,” she mumbles, “I think we should get back to delivering these orders.”

“No. They can wait.” Beca’s obsessed with the way Emily’s lips curl into a smile against her own. 

“You sure? They might think we’re…you know. Slacking.”

“They can think whatever they want.” Beca slides her hands behind Emily’s neck, relishing the warmth she finds there and how it makes Emily shiver. “Right now, you’re all _I_ want.”

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, her breath catches audibly in her throat and she freezes. Under her fingertips, Emily stills too. Then she leans back a bit, tilting her head, regarding Beca with a growing, surprised smile. 

“Okay. Okay, yeah,” Beca says, her ears burning. She pulls free and hops back on the pegs. “You’re right. Let’s keep going.”

She can’t see Emily’s face from back here, but she hears the smile in her voice. “Softie.”

“Shut up and move it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They set off again at breakneck speed, but Beca’s too overwhelmed and mortified to be bothered by the wind whipping mercilessly at her face. She said that. She really said that. The things Emily can make her think _and_ say…no one should have that much unchecked power.

To Beca’s great — and kind of conflicting — relief, Emily doesn’t surprise-kiss her at the remaining two stops. She does, however, wink and smile knowingly at Beca each time she gets back on her bike, like she’s thinking about it. 

Unchecked power.

Unethical.

Then they’re headed back to the shop, less than thirty minutes spent riding and delivering to three separate, distanced locations. Beca wonders what it’s like to have this much physical strength and endurance.

They’re cruising down a residential street when Emily brakes so suddenly Beca pitches forward and slams into her back. 

“Shit,” Emily hisses, twisting in her seat and unceremoniously shoving at Beca. “Get off, get off! Cops!”

Beca scrambles backwards so fast she almost trips and falls on her ass. She probably would’ve, too, if there’d been so much as a single cup of coffee in the bag to tip her over. As it is, she thankfully remains on her feet as Emily hops off the bike and starts walking it, both of them trying and failing to appear innocent.

There are two of them, uniformed beat cops — one of them reclined in the passenger seat of their cruiser, the other leaning against the open door. They’re both chatting idly, sounding bored. Only one of them looks up, barely sparing Beca and Emily a glance as he continues talking to his partner. 

They breathe out identical sighs of relief as they round the corner. 

“Thought you were supposed to be badass,” Beca teases, though her palms are all sweaty and adrenaline’s still pounding through her veins. “That was a lot of panic for someone who breaks rules on a regular basis.”

“Well, yeah. Part of being badass is not getting caught.” Emily remounts and waits for Beca. “Panic helps with that.”

“I don’t appreciate being roped into your criminal behavior.”

“No, you love it,” Emily laughs, continuing to pedal down the street like nothing happened. “We’re like Thelma and Louise. On the run from the law.”

“Emily.” Beca groans. “They _die_ at the end.”

“Oh. They do?”

“They literally kill themselves to avoid arrest.”

“Hm. Dark. Ha!” Emily throws back her head. “So that’s basically a Romeo and Juliet comparison.”

“Sure is.”

Beca feels Emily’s shoulders shaking with laughter. “Okay, okay. I’ll think of a better fictional couple comparison.”

To that, Beca doesn’t have a response. She’s too busy fixating on a singular word, mulling it over in her head, overthinking it, trying to figure out if Emily meant anything by it.

Couple.

Them, a couple.

A _couple_. 

The notion fills her chest with warmth. 

Ugh, yuck.

They arrive back at the shop and return to its blessed warmth, but for the rest of the day, Emily doesn’t revisit the topic. It plagues Beca, her heart beating ten times faster whenever it crosses her mind. Her heart speeds up whenever Emily smiles at her, too, so yeah. This girl’s probably gonna send her to an early grave.

A couple.

Food for thought.

*** * ***

Beca’s hit with the biggest 180 when she walks into the shop the following afternoon. 

Yesterday she’d ended her shift with a blushy, flirty Emily bidding her farewell, smiling that heart-melting smile and waving as Beca went out the door. And now today, as Beca enters that same door, Emily immediately bears down on her with a furious expression, confronting her with a harsh, “Beca, what the _hell_ did you do?”

Which could be referring to anything, really. 

“Uh,” she says intelligently. “Uhhh?”

“This!” Emily shoves Chloe’s tablet into her face. “You can’t just _give_ me money behind my back and expect me to be okay with it!”

It’s open to the tip splitting app. Beca stares at it blankly, dumbfounded and confused beyond words at Emily’s anger. 

Then she remembers. “Oh. The 5%.”

“Yeah!” Emily tosses the tablet aside. “You moved _5%_ of your tips to mine! Why!”

“I didn’t think it’d be such a big deal,” Beca says, keeping her voice even and calm even though she’s getting kind of defensive. She hasn’t even had a chance to take off her damn jacket. Or clock in. “That’s like, literally nothing.”

“It adds up!” She’s still shouting. “Do you know how much of a difference 5% makes?”

“No? God, why does everyone keep trying to explain math to me?”

“A hell of a lot!”

“Okay, can we…?” Beca raises her hands, trying to placate her. Thankfully the shop is empty, but she can see several unattended orders on the screen behind Emily. “Can we just take it down a notch? Or ten? This really isn’t — all right, look.”

She circles around behind the counter and stuffs her jacket away. Emily tails behind her, still peeved but apparently willing to lend a hand. 

“I didn’t mean to like, offend you or anything,” Beca explains. “It was an impulse thing. No thoughts about consequences, clearly. I just saw you doing a lot of shit around the shop that you didn’t have to do, so I thought you should get better compensation.”

Without being asked, Emily starts on the delivery order, muttering grumpily to herself. “I don’t do _that_ much.”

“Are you…? Look what you’re doing now! This isn’t your job!”

“Okay, I do, like, some extra stuff,” she says, literally making three different drinks at once. “That doesn’t mean I should be taking _your_ share of the tips.”

“I just figured, like.” Sighing, Beca pauses to rub at her temples, embarrassed. “You’re way better at customer service, and our regulars actually like you, so. You deserve more for that than I do.” She reaches out to touch Emily’s arm, grinding her mile-a-minute movements to a halt. “I’m sorry. I genuinely didn’t think it would add up enough for it to be noticeable. If I change it back, will you stop yelling at me?”

Emily’s quiet and still for a long while, pensive, but she finally pushes out a glum, “Yeah.”

“Okay, great.”

“But you have to take it all back,” she demands. 

Beca blinks, mouth falling open. “Take it — I… _what_? Dude, no, I’m not going back through, like, three weeks worth of data to calculate that. I _just_ told you I can’t do math.”

“It’s not money I earned, though.” Emily groans. “It’s tainted. It’s blood money.”

“Wow. Offense taken.”

Exasperated, Emily throws her head back as she waits for her last drink to finish blending. “Fine,” she says, fixing Beca in a gaze that’s not quite a glare but not quite the lovey-dovey look she’d given her yesterday. “Fine. If you’re not gonna take it back, I’ll spend it on you. Dinner tomorrow? I’m buying, obviously.”

Frowning, Beca pauses mid-pour. “Wait.” As usual, she’s slow on the uptake. “Is…is this you asking me out on a date?” 

“It is,” Emily bites out.

A strange mixture of confused happiness and anticipation warms Beca from head to toe. Emily still kind of looks irritated, but the hard edges of her scowl are slowly softening. It’s the weirdest, most unconventional way Beca’s ever been asked out.

“You don’t sound very happy about it,” she points out.

“I’m _very_ happy,” Emily snaps. 

“Sure.” 

“Yeah.”

“Great.”

“Great.” Emily finishes putting together her order and starts packing up the bag. “I’m picking you up at 5 tomorrow,” she says, posing it as a factual statement rather than a questioning invite. Which is absurd, because while Beca has the day off tomorrow, it’s literally two hours before Emily’s shift is over. 

“You planning to play hooky just to take me out? I’m flattered.”

A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of Emily’s mouth. She closes her eyes, like she needs to concentrate to hold it back. “We’re ending delivery early tomorrow,” she says evenly. “It’s supposed to snow in the afternoon.”

“You’re taking me out in a _blizzard_?” Now it’s Beca’s turn to close her eyes. “First you drag me out on a freezing delivery run, now dinner in a snowstorm?”

“Don’t exaggerate. It’s only supposed to be 18 inches.”

“What! That’s a lot!”

Emily raises an eyebrow. “So is that a ‘no’? You’re turning me down because of a little snow?”

“No, I’m —!” Beca grinds her teeth and lets out a frustrated growl. Of course, _that’s_ what it takes for Emily to finally smile, though it’s more of a vindictive little smirk than anything. “Fine,” she finally accepts.

“Good.” 

“Yeah, good.”

Satisfied, Emily stomps towards the door. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Uh.” Beca glances at the clock. “What? Are you not coming back after this delivery?”

“I’ll see you _later_!” Emily corrects, annoyed, not bothering to turn around. 

Dazed and frazzled, Beca stares after her as the jingle of the bell fades into silence. It’d happened so fast. But it happened, right? Emily had asked her out and Beca had accepted…right? 

“Aw,” Chloe pops out of the break room, apparently having overheard everything. “That was cute.”

Beca reels back, both at her sudden presence and her wildly inaccurate comment. “Your idea of cute and romantic are so terrifyingly off sometimes.”

Ignoring her, Chloe leans forward on the counter, practically bursting with happiness. “A date! You want help picking out an outfit?”

“I can dress myself,” Beca grunts. “Why would I need your input?”

“Because I helped Emily pick out hers for the open mic night you came to.”

In her head, several things click into place; Beca narrows her eyes at nothing in particular. She slowly turns to face Chloe’s beaming expression. “How long have you been playing matchmaker?”

“Since the very beginning,” Chloe admits, unabashed. 

“Since the…you’ve been setting us up since the _beginning_?” 

“Honestly? I didn’t think it’d go this well. You guys are like, perfect for each other.” Chloe meets Beca’s speechless surprise with a serene smile, evidently pleased with herself. “Aren’t you glad I hired her? And kept you around? And there you were, threatening to quit.”

Beca sighs. “I hate you.”

“Sure, babe.” She nods towards the order screen. “Delivery order just came in. Unless you guys are too in love to race anymore?” 

“We’re not —! God. Forget it. You’re both so annoying.”

Chloe hums. “But you love us.”

Beca refuses to grace that with a response.

*** * ***

As forecasted, the snow starts early in the afternoon and continues to fall steadily into the evening, accumulating thickly on the ground. The last thing Beca wants to do is go outside in these conditions to risk frostbite and hypothermia, but here she is. Checking herself in the mirror. Making sure she’s dressed nicely. Putting on her thickest winter coat.

All for freaking Emily Junk.

Who, of course, arrives right on time to pick her up. 

Who, of course, looks unfairly pretty as always, cheeks rosy from the cold, perfect wavy hair speckled with snowflakes. 

Beca’s only taken one look at her and she’s already feeling faint; surviving an entire date with Emily is looking more and more impossible, even more so considering she has no idea where this girl’s about to take her. 

“Hey,” she greets, already on edge and thus sounding annoyed.

As if she knows the exact cause of Beca’s distress, Emily bites back a smile and coughs out a quiet “hey” in return. “You’re dressed like you’re about to go explore Antarctica.”

“Yeah, because it’s fucking freezing.”

“Big baby. It’s not that bad,” Emily snickers. She holds out a hand. “Lucky for you, it’s not that far of a walk.”

Beca grunts. “Lucky for _you_ that I agreed to come out today of all days.” 

But she grabs Emily’s hand nonetheless. And that’s all it takes, just the feeling of Emily’s hand in hers, to quell the irritation buzzing at the corners of her mind, the nervousness twitching in her fingers, the unwelcome chill already creeping up her toes. 

It really is that simple.

Ugh, she’s in too deep.

“Oh, shush. You _want_ to be on a date with me.” Emily nudges at Beca’s elbow as they walk. “Would you prefer I just Venmo you $100 and call it quits?” 

Keeping her eyes forward, Beca smirks and pointedly stays silent. As expected, Emily elbows her again, sharper this time. 

“Don’t be rude.”

“You didn’t give me that option yesterday,” Beca shrugs.

“I offered to pay you back!”

“Venmo, huh? Would’ve been fast. Wouldn’t have needed to walk through a blizzard.”

Emily scoffs. “Literally so rude.”

Smiling to herself, Beca squeezes Emily’s hand. “Yes,” she says, rolling her eyes, “I want to be on this date with you.”

Emily squeezes back and interlocks their fingers. “Yeah?” she asks, her voice soft and happy. And Beca can’t bear to turn and look at her expression because she _knows_ it’s going to make her want to stop and kiss Emily senseless. And if she’s being honest, she’s too damn cold to enjoy something like that right now.

“I also want to get the hell out of this snow,” she adds.

“Okay, okay. We’re almost there.” Emily leads them down the block and around a corner. “There,” she says, pointing.

Beca gapes at the storefront. “You…you brought me to a _coffee shop_?”

“Yeah. You like coffee.”

“You don’t!”

Emily rolls her eyes. “They serve food here, too. Come on.”

It’s more of an upscale cafe than a coffee shop, its interior way more classy and refined compared to Caffè Bella. They actually have wait service and laminated menus. There’s hardly anyone else here, though, probably due to the weather. 

“You thought kissing in the shop was bad,” Beca mutters as they’re shown to a table, “wait until Chloe finds out we went to a rival cafe.”

“Oh. This place was Chloe’s idea.” 

Of course it fucking was. 

They settle into their seats, Emily’s long legs brushing against Beca’s under the table. As soon as their waiter puts down the menus, Emily snatches them away. “I’m ordering for you,” she says. 

Beca grabs at the pile, narrowing her eyes when Emily pulls it out of reach. “You don’t know what I want.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Yeah? How?” Emily gives her a sly look, and Beca lets out a slow sigh of defeat. “Chloe.”

“So convenient, having a double agent.” 

“You two are insufferable.”

“Ha.” Emily grins. “You love us.”

It’s the same exact claim Chloe had made yesterday. Same tone, same response, same…everything. Beca doesn’t know why it throws her for a loop when Emily says it. Maybe it’s the slight difference in the tone. Maybe it just sounds more convincing coming from Emily, and Beca can actually kind of acknowledge that yeah, maybe she does…care about them.

Maybe it’s the word _love_ coming from Emily. Making Beca hyper-aware of where they are and what they’re doing.

They’re on a date. 

Like, a real date. At a real restaurant and everything.

A thing that couples do. 

She watches as Emily orders for the both of them, barely listening for the mystery dish she’s about to receive, once again captivated by how pretty Emily is. Her face has a natural kind of softness to it, emphasized by her warm, kind eyes and, of course, that annoyingly adorable smile. 

It’s hard for Beca to accept it. The human race is blessed with someone this perfect and _she’s_ the idiot who gets to be on a date with her? What in the world could Emily see in her?

With the menus cleared from the table, Emily suddenly reaches over to still Beca’s hand, tapping out a nervous beat on the surface. “Relax,” she says, “I didn’t get you anything _that_ expensive.”

Which isn’t what Beca’s thinking about, but she’d rather have Emily assume that than say what was actually on her mind. Mutely, she shifts her hand so their fingers are interlocked again. It’s like magic, the way such a simple action like holding Emily’s hand can make her feel so much better, so much calmer. Usually Beca hates this kind of PDA, but for Emily, she’s willing to make an exception.

Who’s she kidding? For Emily, she’ll make all the exceptions she can take.

“Hm.” Emily tilts her head and taps the back of Beca’s hand. “I like that you’re a lefty. We don’t have to let go to eat.”

Beca closes her eyes. Dead. She’s dead. There’s no conceivable way she’s going to make it through the night if Emily keeps this up. “You’re _such_ a cheeseball,” she says, immediately cringing at her enamored tone.

“Well, yeah,” Emily says, like it should be obvious. “You love it, though.”

Instead of responding — not that she can think of any kind of comeback right now — Beca groans and hides her burning face behind her free hand. 

So it’s gonna be _that_ kind of date. 

The kind with endless conversation and good food and constant banter and gross sappiness. 

Which is to say, really, a picture-perfect one. And it should’ve been obvious from the get-go that it would be; it’s Emily she’s out with. Someone who’s always made her feel lighter, made everything easier, made her happier. 

Maybe it’s a bit nerve-wracking, being out with this relentlessly flirty Emily, the one who’s kissed her like, half a dozen times already. But at the base level, it’s still just them. Just Emily, the shop’s absurdly fast delivery biker, and just Beca, the ever-annoyed and short-tempered barista. 

That part, she’s sure, will never change.

*** * ***

“Let’s go to the park.”

The suggestion wipes the satisfied smile from Beca’s face. They’d just emerged from the cafe, pleasantly warm and full. It’s dark, it’s cold, it’s still snowing, and frankly, Beca had been hoping the time they spent outside would be limited to getting from one place to another as fast as humanly possible. 

“Come on,” Emily insists, seeing the look on Beca’s face. “It looks super pretty in the snow. Just a quick lap. Please?”

“Fine,” Beca agrees snappishly before Emily can pull out those puppy-dog eyes.

“Great.” She leans down and pecks Beca on the cheek. “You’re the best.”

Unfair. Unchecked. Unethical.

Grumbling under her breath and blushing like an idiot, she lets Emily lead the way to the park. The snow’s piled up about a foot now, and Beca struggles to stomp through the unshoveled sidewalks. 

Emily patiently slows down her usual pace. “Want me to carry you?” she offers.

“Abso _lute_ ly not.”

They eventually make it to the park and, okay, Beca has to admit that she sees Emily’s point. It _does_ look super pretty, the untouched snow all smooth and sparkly under the warm glow of the streetlights. The pathways, at the very least, are shoveled.

For a snowy Thursday evening, there are quite a few people milling around. A group of college students. Several couples. A family with kids. Even an honest-to-god street performer with a guitar, filling the air with a deep, soothing melody.

It’s a nice song, captivating even without vocals. They walk along silently for a bit, listening, when Emily suddenly stops and turns to her and extends a hand.

“Dance with me?”

Beca frowns. “What? No.”

“Please?”

“Really? Here? Now?”

Not bothering to waste her breath on a response, Emily takes Beca’s hand and pulls her in, looping an arm easily around her waist. Then, to Beca’s immense embarrassment, she starts gently swaying them side to side in a slow dance. 

Conceptually, this could be romantic. Slow dancing to a melodic guitar riff as snow falls silently all around them, like some picturesque snowglobe moment. But unfortunately for her, Beca has self-awareness and an extreme aversion to public scrutiny. Two things Emily seems to lack.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” she asks.

“No,” Beca says immediately. “I hate this.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Well I’d hate this less if we weren’t in the middle of a freaking park.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Emily laughs. “There’s barely anyone around.”

Beca grumbles out a wordless complaint, but she goes along with it, because what the hell else can she do? She’s been strung along this far, made it this far into the night, and she’d be damned if she starts rejecting Emily’s sappy suggestions now. 

In any case, it’s not that bad if she blocks out the rest of the world and focuses on Emily. On her lazy leading steps. On her steady grip. On the snowflakes melting on her fluttering eyelashes. On the gentle curve of her lips as she smiles under Beca’s attention. 

“See? Not that bad.”

“No, still pretty bad,” she lies. “I thought singing karaoke with you was the cheesiest thing I’d ever do. But now this.”

“You think that was cheesy?” Emily raises her eyebrows, amused. “Ohoho, you ain’t seen nothing yet, bub. I’ve still got oodles of cheese up my sleeve.”

“Jesus,” Beca groans. “Can’t believe you can say shit like that and _still_ have me stick around.”

“Yeah. I’m that powerful,” she laughs. But then her smile wavers and she stops swaying to the music. “Speaking of sticking around…I was wondering if you were planning on doing that. With me.”

“Oh, you wanna do _this_ , too?” Beca asks, her heart suddenly jumping into her throat. “Here and now?”

Despite Beca’s tone, Emily’s eyes soften. 

“I do.” She leans down until their cold-numbed noses brush. Her gaze is so sincere that Beca wants to look away, but she finds herself transfixed. “Because I really like you. And I’m like, _pretty_ sure you like me back.”

Beca can’t manage a sarcastic response with Emily looking at her like that. A tight, “Yeah,” is all she can breathe out. 

“So…I think it’d be pretty neat,” Emily starts, brushing back a strand of Beca’s hair from her eyes before cupping her cheek, “if you could be my girlfriend. And I could be yours.” 

She doesn’t wait for a response before tilting her head forward. Beca should’ve been ready for it — there was hardly an inch of space between them before Emily moved — but the mind-numbing sensation of their lips pressing together still sends her heart rate into overdrive and makes her weak at the knees. 

She’s never going to get used to this. To Emily. To kissing Emily.

She has her answer even before they pull apart. She’s had it for a while, now.

“Yes.”

Emily blinks. “Yes?”

Beca rolls her eyes. “Yes,” she repeats. “Is that so surprising?”

“Well, I dunno.” Emily holds back a laugh. “Would you still have said yes if I didn’t kiss you just now?”

“Wh- _yes_ ,” Beca splutters. 

“Are you sure you’re not just saying yes so you can keep kissing me?”

It’s hard to glare at someone who’s making her so happy, but Beca sure tries. “You’re…” Her head is spinning too fast, drunk on love, to come up with a witty remark. “…so annoying.” 

“Aw. Owie,” Emily says, smiling so hard that her cheeks brush up against Beca’s. “My poor widdle feewings.”

Beca bites back a smile of her own. “Stop.”

“You’re gonna make me cwy.”

“Oh, my — that’s it.” Beca leans her head away. “We’re breaking up.”

“Nooo come back,” Emily whines, giggling. She pulls at Beca until she reluctantly settles back into her arms. “Not allowed. We’re never breaking up.”

“Hm. Never?”

“Never.”

Beca huffs out a soft laugh. Speaking in absolutes about a relationship is yet another overly cheesy thing she wouldn’t have done before Emily, and to actually believe in it? She really has gotten too soft for her own good. 

“All right, fine,” she says. Then she surges up on her toes to kiss her, just because she can. “Now that we’re dating, can we _please_ go somewhere warmer?”

“Oh, yes.” A slow, mischievous smile pulls at one corner of Emily’s mouth. “I know a great place nearby that serves the _best_ coffee.” 

Beca searches her face, waiting for her to crack a smile, but she doesn’t. 

“You can’t be serious.”

“Trust me, you’ll love it! It’s a cute shop.” Emily pauses, frowning. “Ugh, well. The owner’s really nice, but one of the baristas is like, kind of rude, so hopefully we don’t run into her.”

“Wow,” Beca drones. “Wow, okay.”

“I’m kidding! You know you’re my favorite.”

“Uh huh, sure.” 

“Hey.” Emily nudges her arm as they start making their way out of the park. “I’ll race you there.”

“Dude, no,” Beca says. “No way. We’re gonna slip and die.”

“You have a low center of gravity. You’ll be fine.”

“And _you_ have mile-long legs.”

“So we both have our own advantages,” Emily points out. “Sounds like a fair race to me.”

Beca looks ahead at the cleared pathways of the park and the less-shoveled sidewalks beyond. 

She sighs. “Fine.”

And immediately shoves Emily off the sidewalk and into a pile of snow. 

“Hey! Cheater!” she screams after Beca as she runs off. She knows that it’s hopeless, that an unfair start won’t change a damned thing, that Emily is just going to use vengeance to fuel her, but Beca still makes a valiant effort. 

She barely makes it ten yards before Emily’s angry footsteps bear down on her. Beca screams as Emily tackles her from behind and throws them both sideways onto the snow-covered lawn, the momentum causing them to tumble over each other until they roll to a stop. 

“S-sabotage,” Beca coughs out, laughing too hard to string together a sentence. Snow seeps in through her jeans, chilling her legs, but she can’t find it in her to get up. “You — inter-…hhhgod. Interception. Cheating.”

“ _You’re_ the cheater,” Emily growls, rolling over so she’s hovering over Beca. Her hair and clothes are coated with snow. “Never took you for someone who plays dirty.”

“Well, you know.” Beca grins and pulls Emily down to her, brushing their lips together softly. “I’m a wild card, baby.”

Clearly still annoyed but melting against Beca and smiling at the stupid comment, Emily breathes out a quiet laugh. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Mmm, yeah. I am.” She hesitates, but then reaches up to brush her fingers along Emily’s cheek. “Lucky, I mean. To have you.”

To her satisfaction, Emily flushes under her fingertips. “Okay, wow. _Now_ who’s the cheeseball?”

“Definitely still you.”

“You’re catching up.”

Beca scowls. “You take that back right now.”

“No.” Emily sticks out her tongue and swipes snow onto Beca’s face before scrambling to her feet. “Cheeseball!” she calls over her shoulder as she runs away. 

Spitting out curses as she clears her eyes, Beca chases after her as fast she possibly can, boots crunching over the snow, murder in her heart. 

There is no fucking way she’s losing this fight.

**Author's Note:**

> title song: New Religion - The Heydaze
> 
> fic songs:  
> Closing Time - Havelin  
> Cave In - Owl City  
> Fire Burnin' - Ross David  
> Without You - Parachute
> 
> as usual, ty angie for letting me scream at u with various au ideas <3
> 
> this shop and its location are loosely based on my quaint neighborhood, so shout out to my fave lil city for supplying inspo for this fic
> 
> always at <https://becaeffingmitchell.tumblr.com/>


End file.
